Bloggers maintain that the “Good Doctor”
was not only the father of gonzo journalism but also
the blog community. A New York Times’ obituary
lent credence to the paternity suit, stating that:
“Mr. Thompson's approach in many ways mirrors
the style of modern-day bloggers, those self-styled
social commentators who blend news, opinion and personal
experience on Internet postings. Like bloggers, Mr.
Thompson built his case for the state of America around
the framework of his personal views and opinions.”
I strongly suspect that Thompson would (to steal
his lexicon) fear and loathe such a paternal affiliation,
for in many ways it borders on the kind of personal
theft that led the legendary writer to despise Garry
Trudeau for stealing his likeness to create Doonesbury’s
Uncle Duke, and to retreat in later years to his infamous
“fortified compound” in Woody Creek, Colorado—safely
tucked away from those rabid fans who, unable to find
a voice of their own, hounded the writer, hoping to
absorb some genius through osmosis, a fat joint, or
a shared tumbler of Chivas.
Thompson was a brilliant craftsman, arguably the
best prose stylist of his generation, and perhaps
(until his untimely passing) America’s greatest
living author. To get there took a hell of a lot of
hard work. Thompson’s vast knowledge of classic
literature and poetry, combined with his thorough
understanding of politics and the blood lust of Western
civilization, is almost unprecedented in American
letters. His literary voice was instantly recognizable
(the ultimate goal of every author) and obviously
the result of untold hours of self-exploration during
his formative years as a writer, as well as reams
of ink-stained paper that were destined for his eyes
only.
When standing on the shoulders of giants one had
better understand the body on which those shoulders
rest. Thompson’s respect for literary tradition
and scholarship, as well as his work ethic (missed
deadlines aside) can be traced to his early admiration
of novelist Jack Kerouac. As a young man, Thompson
felt a kinship with the Beat author and the powerful
immediacy of Kerouac’s prose. But unlike many
fledgling writers, Thompson realized that Kerouac’s
ability to write spontaneously with such breathtaking
results emerged only after the On the Road author
spent years immersing himself in the most challenging
world literature of the 19th and early 20th century,
while also spending countless nights scribbling his
thoughts onto paper, then burning it in the morning
(not posting it on a public bulletin board for the
world to see). In other words, Kerouac’s work
did not mean that writers only had to spill their
guts, uncensored opinions, or subconscious detritus
and voila they would become artists worthy of a public
reading.
Like all legendary authors, Thompson had a tremendous
and abiding respect for the written word, a love affair
with language that led him to call writing even better
than sex or any drug he had ever taken. We would do
well to remember that in the coming days, when all
the eulogies pour in, paying homage to the drug addled
“gonzo” public image Thompson created
while working for Rolling Stone, rather than his skillfully
orchestrated cannon of work which includes such classics
of Americana as Hell’s Angels, Fear and Loathing
in Las Vegas, and most recently Hey Rube: Blood Sport,
the Bush Doctrine, and the Downward Spiral of Dumbness.
With Thompson’s propensity for self-mythology,
it is easy for us to confuse the author with the crazed
protagonist of his essays and books. But by all reckoning
(including his eccentricities) Thompson was as serious
a writer as Fitzgerald, Faulkner, or Hemingway—and
one who practiced his craft with equal diligence,
while dispatching no more bottles whiskey than his
predecessors had enjoyed. In fact, Thompson’s
work may have been even more difficult to produce.
For to write in his bone-crunching style, requires
(as the author once opined) the skills of a master
journalist, the trained eye of a photographer or artist,
and the weighty balls of an actor. In the politically
correct, pop culture driven, castrated world in which
we live today, a writer can count himself lucky if
he possesses but one of these attributes, much less
all three.
Therefore when The Times associates Dr. Hunter S.
Thompson with contemporary bloggers, whose writing
rarely, if ever, exhibits the hard won literary flair,
wit, or style of an accomplished author who has dedicated
a lifetime to his art, it is ultimately a piss on
Thompson’s career by the book editors of an
all too elite rag; and when bloggers make the association,
it’s simply a reckless act of hubris that (though
it may be unintentional) shows little respect for
the man they now wish to honor.
This essay is not meant to bash bloggers. Only to
say that in life, as well as art, it is best not to
jump ahead of oneself. The blog community should be
overjoyed with what they have achieved within the
realm of journalism; with their indisputable influence
on the landscape of American opinion; with their success
at releasing the stranglehold of the country’s
corporate run media. But Thompson was far, far more
than a journalist, or even an author. He was an American
original who (while savagely pursuing it) rode the
receding American Dream to its inevitable and all
too sad finish.
D.A. Blyler is the author of the novel Steffi’s
Club. His essays have appeared at Salon.com, The
Korean Herald, Bangkok’s The Nation, and other
international and online publications. A lecturer
at Rajanagarindra Rajabhat University, he makes his
home in Thailand. |
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