Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, author of Hells Angels and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas has fatally shot himself on Sunday. He was confirmed dead by the Pitkin County Sheriff Bob Braudis this evening.
Thompson is credited with pioneering New Journalism or, as he dubbed it, "gonzo journalism" in which the writer made himself an essential component of the story. Much of his earliest work appeared in Rolling Stone magazine.
"Fiction is based on reality unless you're a fairy-tale artist," Thompson told the AP in 2003. "You have to get your knowledge of life from somewhere. You have to know the material you're writing about before you alter it."
An acute observer of the decadence and depravity in American life, Thompson also wrote such collections "Generation of Swine" and "Songs of the Doomed." His first ever novel, "The Rum Diary," written in 1959, was first published in 1998.
Thompson was a counterculture icon at the height of the Watergate era, and Richard Nixon once said he represented "that dark, venal, and incurably violent side of the American character."
Thompson also was the model for Gary Trudeau's balding "Uncle Duke" in the comic strip "Doonesbury" and was portrayed on screen by Johnny Depp in a film adaptation of "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas."
The author was 67.
He was not a nice man, nor a role model. He had a streak of painful realizations that haunted his work and guided generation after generation into the Dante-esque world of paranoia, crude-addled addiction, and back into a "Real" world more hellish than once realized. Perhaps he saw no future for the Doomed Generation, or perhaps his Weasels and the Demons got the better of him. Perhaps it's somekind of strange accident, or the CIA finally had enough of the stern realizations that came from Woody Creek. One thing is for sure, the world has lost one more voice in the great Void, and all that is left is our own silence.
My own favorite Thompson moment came not long after 9/11 when he said
At dawn I went down to the tank and found the gas hose shredded by birdshot and two peacocks dead.
So what? I thought. What is more important right now -- my precious gasoline or the lives of some silly birds?
Indeed, but the New York Stock Exchange opened Monday morning, so I have to get a grip on something solid. The Other Shoe is about to drop, and it might be extremely heavy. The time has come to be strong. The fat is in the fire. Who knows what will happen now?
Not me, buster. That's why I live out here in the mountains with a flag on my porch and loud Wagner music blaring out of my speakers. I feel lucky, and I have plenty of ammunition. That is God's will, they say, and that is also why I shoot into the darkness at anything that moves. Sooner or later, I will hit something Evil, and feel no Guilt. It might be Osama Bin Laden. Who knows? And where is Adolf Hitler, now that we finally need him? It is bad business to go into War without a target.
In times like these, when the War-drums roll and the bugles howl for blood, I think of Vince Lombardi, and I wonder how he would handle it. ... Good old Vince. He was a zealot for Victory at all costs, and his hunger for it was pure -- or that's what he said and what his legend tells us, but it is worth noting that he is not even in the top 20 in career victories.
We are At War now, according to President Bush, and I take him at his word. He also says this War might last for "a very long time."
I take one small solace in this: his death wasn't by the hand of some deranged drifter, or by age, or by drug overdose, or cancerous affliction. He died in his own time, in his own way. God knows that he could have survived us all.
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