I was so depressed this morning to wake up to the news that the great Hunter S. Thompson had killed himself. He took the Hemingway way out, with a shotgun.
I don't have many heroes, but he was one of them. His savage originality and his fierce commitment to destroying hypocrisy are something I've always aspired to, and I like to think that he's been a significant influence on my writing (not that you can tell given how infrequently I update this blog, but go with me on this one).
Like Frank Zappa (another hero), his was a unique voice that perhaps wasn't fully appreciated in his lifetime. But he offered an unvarnished view of American life that was a tonic we sorely needed -- and still do.
(You know, if our impending child is a boy, we were planning on naming him Hunter, just as much in honor of Thompson as for the fact that it's a family name on my side.)
What a sad day. Not only will we not see anymore of his fine prose again, but it also feels like the bastards are one step closer to winning.
7 years ago