Hunter S. Thompson was not short of opinions.
You could get him riffing on Nixon or disco or motorcycles or breakfast — anything, really. He’d gibber into a handheld recorder until the cassette stopped or the beer ran dry.
That was his method: to observe close-up, with extreme prejudice.
To fill the pages of Rolling Stone or Esquire, Thompson would seek trouble (if he couldn’t find it, he’d make it). Then — presuming he escaped the mob — Thompson would fax an editor with a largely subjective report.
Some verifiable facts would make it through, of course, as Thompson was a political junkie. But you shouldn’t go to the king of gonzo journalism for a historical record.
Instead, go for freakish, paranoid, subjective impressions. Buy the ticket, take the ride. Then, when the jitters subside and your pulse returns to its baseline stupor, go again. His cheap thrills lead to deep wells of thought.
Thompson meant to jab readers in the kidneys. He wanted to jerk them to their feet. Whether the vertical reader was then going to curse Thompson as a communist or march on Washington was of secondary interest.
Thompson’s job — as he saw it — was to get a reaction. And if you’re a writer of any kind, that’s one thing you have in common. It might be the only thing. He was a very strange man…
I can’t think in terms of journalism without thinking in terms of political ends. Unless there’s been a reaction, there’s been no journalism.
Aidan Clifford writes for Pinstripe Poets – artists who love their day jobs. This post is part of a series called ‘Write like the Greats’. See the rest here.
