Proud Highway:Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman (24 page)

So it would seem foolish, would it not, to adjust our lives to the demands of a goal we see from a different angle every day? How could we ever hope to accomplish anything other than galloping neurosis?

The answer, then, must not deal with goals at all, or not with tangible goals, anyway. It would take reams of paper to develop this subject to fulfillment. God only knows how many books have been written on “the meaning of man” and that sort of thing, and god only knows how many people have pondered the subject. (I use the term “god only knows” purely as an expression.) There's very little sense in my trying to give it up to you in the proverbial nutshell, because I'm the first to admit my absolute lack of qualifications for reducing the meaning of life to one or two paragraphs.

I'm going to steer clear of the word “existentialism,” but you might keep it in mind as a key of sorts. You might also try something called
Being and Nothingness
by Jean-Paul Sartre, and another little thing called
Existentialism: From Dostoyevsky to Sartre.
¹²
These are merely suggestions. If you're genuinely satisfied with what you are and what you're doing, then give those books a wide berth. (Let sleeping dogs lie.)

But back to the answer. As I said, to put our faith in tangible goals would seem to be, at best, unwise. So we do not strive to be firemen, we do not strive to be bankers, nor policemen, nor doctors. WE STRIVE TO BE OURSELVES.

But don't misunderstand me. I don't mean that we can't BE firemen, bankers, or doctors—but that we must make the goal conform to the individual, rather than make the individual conform to the goal. In every man, heredity and environment have combined to produce a creature of certain abilities and desires—including a deeply ingrained need to function in such a way that his life will be MEANINGFUL. A man has to BE something; he has to matter.

As I see it then, the formula runs something like this: a man must choose a path which will let his ABILITIES function at maximum efficiency toward the gratification of his DESIRES. In doing this, he is fulfilling a need (giving himself identity by functioning in a set pattern toward a set goal) he avoids frustrating his potential (choosing a path which puts no limit on his self-development), and he avoids the terror of seeing his goal wilt or lose its charm as he draws closer to it (rather than bending himself to meet the demands of that which he seeks, he has bent his goal to conform to his own abilities and desires).

In short, he has not dedicated his life to reaching a pre-defined goal, but he has rather chosen a way of life he KNOWS he will enjoy. The goal is
absolutely secondary: it is the
functioning toward the goal
which is important. And it seems almost ridiculous to say that a man MUST function in a pattern of his own choosing; for to let another man define your own goals is to give up one of the most meaningful aspects of life—the definitive act of will which makes a man an individual.

Let's assume that you think you have a choice of eight paths to follow (all pre-defined paths, of course). And let's assume that you can't see any real purpose in any of the eight. THEN—and here is the essence of all I've said-you MUST FIND A NINTH PATH.

Naturally, it isn't as easy as it sounds. You've lived a relatively narrow life, a vertical rather than a horizontal existence. So it isn't any too difficult to understand why you seem to feel the way you do. But a man who procrastinates in his CHOOSING will inevitably have his choice made for him by circumstance.

So if you now number yourself among the disenchanted, then you have no choice but to accept things as they are, or to seriously seek something else. But beware of looking for
goals:
look for a way of life. Decide how you want to live and then see what you can do to make a living WITHIN that way of life.

But you say, “I don't know where to look; I don't know what to look for.” And there's the crux. Is it worth giving up what I have to look for something better? I don't know—is it? Who can make that decision but you? But even by DECIDING TO LOOK, you go a long way toward making the choice.

If I don't call this to a halt, I'm going to find myself writing a book. I hope it's not as confusing as it looks at first glance. Keep in mind, of course, that this is MY WAY of looking at things. I happen to think that it's pretty generally applicable, but you may not. Each of us has to create our own credo—this merely happens to be mine.

If any part of it doesn't seem to make sense, by all means call it to my attention. I'm not trying to send you out “on the road” in search of Valhalla, but merely pointing out that it is not necessary to accept the choices handed down to you by life as you know it. There is more to it than that—no one HAS to do something he doesn't want to do for the rest of his life. But then again, if that's what you wind up doing, by all means convince yourself that you HAD to do it. You'll have lots of company.

And that's it for now. Until I hear from you again, I remain,

your friend …
Hunter

TO
THE NEW YORK TIMES
:

Thompson's reply to a blind
New York Times
want ad for a reporter failed to get him an interview.

April 29, 1958
57 Perry Street
New York City

Box Z8726

NY TIMES

Gentlemen,

After debating for several days as to the advisability of answering your ad in last Sunday's
Times,
I've decided to take the proverbial shot in the dark. If I get a reply from something like
Family Fun, Garden Specialties,
or
Weird Confessions,
I'll know my first hunch was right.

For it is my own special shame, gentlemen, to have to admit that I am UNABLE to write for such worthy periodicals. Somewhere along the line I went wrong. Somewhere there is a great warp in my training, rendering me unfit to compose eulogies on “togetherness,” exposés on prostitution rings, or heart-warming revelations on the private life of blind folk.

No, gentlemen, I seem to be of another ilk. I shall then list some three or four subjects I feel I could treat with some objectivity. If, after realizing the apparently acerbic nature of my interests, you'd like to discuss the matter any further, I shall be only too happy to place myself at your service.

Voici:
(1) a discourse on the adverse effect an enthusiastic but ignorant public can have on the creative artist, giving, as a parallel case in point, the commercial oblivion lying in wait for American literature and American jazz. Since this is an article I've already developed to some degree, I could go further; but since I dislike the idea of tipping my hand to an unknown audience, I'll leave the rest to your imagination.

(2) an analysis of the term “beat generation,” the whys and wherefores of a generation without a sense of values, given from a viewpoint which holds that the whole movement is a manifestation of an essentially bourgeois culture, a rebellion of the ignorant, and a serious indication of things to come (as Dadaism was in the twenties).

(3) a subjective study of the reasons for the alarming decline—in both quality and quantity—of young journalists.

I could go on and on, of course, but I think you should have a pretty good idea by now of the type of thing I'd like to do. As I said before, if it's what you're looking for, I am at your service.

Cordially,
Hunter S. Thompson

TO SUSAN HASELDEN
:

Just back from an ebullient nighttime tour of New York, Thompson wrote Haselden hoping to lure her to Gotham in the near future.

May 1, 1958
57 Perry Street
New York City

Dear Susan,

After thinking over my letter of this afternoon, I feel compelled to write again to explain what must have seemed like a sudden burst of paternalism. It's just that you sounded so discouraged and so alone that I simply couldn't control the long-dormant “protector-advisor” feelings lying peacefully at the bottom of my breast. I'm sure, though, that by the time you get my letter, your despondency will have fled with the first warm breeze and my stern advice will seem like so much balderdash.

This doesn't mean, of course, that you should discount what I said. When you're let into somebody else's game, you don't make up your own rules. Unless you like the pseudo-individualist tag, you have to make a clean break. No two ideals were ever more incompatible than the security of conformity and the freedom of individuality. After the choice is made, the rest is easy—unless you don't have the guts to stick by your choice.

There's so damn much I want you to understand and words are such a poor medium when you really want someone to feel something. I've been wandering around New York since eight o'clock—it's now one-thirty—having one of the finest evenings I can remember. I spent about an hour wandering along Riverside Drive above the Hudson, then went over to Morningside Drive where you can stand right on top of Harlem and see a whole world bubbling at your feet. God, what fantastic contrasts! You have to cross the Columbia campus on the way from the river to Morningside Drive. It just doesn't seem right to try to describe it, so you'll have to come up and wander with me.

It's an unbelievably brilliant night outside. I rode down Fifth Avenue with the bus window wide open and a blasting wind in my face. I can't remember when I've felt more alive. With the searchlights from the Empire State Building sweeping the black night over Central Park, a full moon glimmering on the lake and the towers of Central Park West rising over the trees, I felt like I was gliding through a dream. I wandered around on Forty-second Street for a while and then got another bus and rode down to the Village—another fantastic contrast. After a cup of coffee with the colored pervert who lives up the hall, I came in here and seriously considered calling you on the phone. Another cup of coffee,
though, and I calmed down a bit—thus saving my phone. I certainly couldn't have paid the bill.

But it's been a fantastic night and I might as well break down and admit that I missed you like hell. I'm trying to think where we could have gone swimming.

Your imminent arrival has set me to plotting feverishly, but I'm none too optimistic about it. For one thing, a mere week is far from enough time to really understand New York: and for another, a terribly ironic complication has arisen for the first week of June. Why don't you just come and live with me this summer? Things would be so much simpler. Write me about this. Love,

Hunter

TO THE VILLAGE VOICE
:

The Village Voice
had run an article saying that the New York police were no longer busting drug dealers in Greenwich Village and on Madison Avenue. Thompson seized the opportunity to twit the
Voice—
and ask for a job.

May 19, 1958
57 Perry Street
New York City

Editor

Village Voice

Say man, I'm bein' bugged by the police and your damn paper's the cause of it all. You've got to watch what you print around here, especially when not everybody reads your paper. I still have a huge knot on my back where that cop hit me.

What I'm talkin' about, you see, is that damn article I read in your paper about a week ago, where you talked about Madison Avenue and oppressed butlers and all that sort of thing. Well you see now, I'm a dope peddler and that article made good sense to me. As a matter of fact, it was just what I been trying to tell the cops all along. I been sayin' to myself “hell yes, if the people want my pod, why should the blasted bulls bug me about sellin' it on the street?” But I been gettin' nowhere, you see, because I couldn't get any intellectual backing. I mean it's been pure hell at times—cops chasm' me in the street and everything else!

But then, man, I read that article last week in your paper and I thought the sun had decided to shine on me at last. Man, when I saw that these boys over on Madison Avenue had been usin' my theory all along, well I felt all warm inside, you know? Man, I grabbed a bag of my stuff and hustled
out into the street, figurin' that I was safe, you know—now that people had finally come to their senses. I figured Madison Avenue had led us into a new age of enlightenment, or some such thing.

So like I said, I hustled over to the Square and began hawkin' my wares—just like in the good old days. Man, I was wailin': times were good!

But then, by god, all hell broke loose. I heard this
wild
scream behind me (man, it froze my blood) and I looked around just in time to see this crazy bull come racin' over the grass yellin' like all hell! Well man, I couldn't figure it out. I sez to myself: “what in the hell's goin' on here? Hasn't this man been readin' the paper? Hasn't he been keepin' up with the news?”

But man, the way he was waving that damn club around, I knew I was goin' to have to tell him the news myself—he was one of these guys that's
nowhere
—you know?