Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson
A quick outline for this format is attached, but it won’t make much sense to anybody who hasn’t read this letter. What you should probably do is read “The Battle of Aspen” again and see if you can understand the politics frenzy I got into—beginning with New Hampshire & Chicago, then snowballing crazily after the ’69 Aspen campaign.
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If you can understand this, you owe me $5000 at once—because at least one third of the book is already written and sitting there in your hands (see enc. Outline). As a matter of fact I suspect that delivery of that $5000 (for the first third) might be exactly what we both need to force this monster thru to the finish. It would certainly give you more incentive to focus on the fucker—and the proven assurance that the final two-thirds would net me another $10K would cause me to clear the decks & gear down even to the extent of moving out to a motel to get the bastard finished.
Right now, for instance, I have Wenner & his wife staying next door—ostensibly on vacation, but at noon tomorrow (4 hrs from now) Jann is going to be over here demanding to see the climax scene from Part Two of “Fear & Loathing in Vegas.” (It won’t exist, of course, because I’ve spent the past 4 hours on this letter.) But I think I’ve finally crystallized my own vision of the AD book. I think we should title it “The Battle of Aspen” & move, full-bore, from there. I’ll send my vitally important comments on the Las Vegas book in a separate envelope, which I’ll write immediately & mail along with this one.
Meanwhile, I’m spending my off-hours playing volleyball and snorting cocaine with Bob Rafelson. His initial reaction to the Rum Diary film project was, “Yes, let’s do it right now.” But of course that’s impossible, and he’s starting a film of his own in September. So I think the thing to do is get off to Saigon, then come back for the ’72 campaign and then do The Rum Diary. That will give me the time & incentive to rewrite the novel in tight visual/narrative form.
And also by then I should have:
1) The AD/Battle of Aspen book in print
2) hopefully, the short Vegas book in print
3) and also a Vietnam book going to press
I’m also on the verge of settling this land-purchase project—with no money down: an accomplishment that will cause me to rank, sooner or later, with the handful of Great Financial Wizards.
Anyway, that’s how things stand at the moment. By my lights, I’ve given you enough, with this bundle, to begin talking seriously about sending me that $5000 check for the First Third. If not, I think you owe me a serious, working alternative … because in terms of the book as I see it now, you have the first third.
The Vegas book is a separate thing, as I see it (see tandem letter).
So ponder all this and let me know at once. I am ready to wrap the fucker up ASAP, but I’ll need something more than mere fuzzy encouragement from you before I can tighten down the screws and blitz everything else to get this thing finished.
OK for now,
Hunter
TO JIM SILBERMAN, RANDOM HOUSE:
Thompson included a separate letter on the Vegas project.
July 12, 1971
Woody Creek, CO
Jim …
I’m not sure which of these envelopes you’ll open first, but I thought I should separate this memo on the Vegas project from the long letter and AD/ Battle of Aspen outline.
It seems absolutely clear to me that I’m writing two different books—particularly if you can agree with me that the AD book should go as The Battle of Aspen. I can’t see any way to mix a 40,000 word Vegas/drug-nightmare into that, without destroying the AD book & my reputation along with it.
Wenner will be over (he’s sleeping not about 100 yards away) in four hours to do the final editing on Vegas One. That’s 20,000 words, completely finished & ready to send to the printer as of tonight. I think I’ve persuaded Jann to get Ralph Steadman (the British artist who worked with me on the KyDerby piece) to do the art for Vegas. I don’t know how you could work this out in terms of money with RS/Straight Arrow, but it seems to me that—having paid the bulk of my expenses on both Vegas pieces—you have at least a first option on what now looks, irrevocably, to me, like a 40,000 to 50,000 word book called either “Fear & Loathing in Vegas,” by H . . S . . T . . or “The Vegas Diaries of Raoul Duke” by Hunter S. Thompson.
Vegas Two is already 10,000 finished words, and it looks like an easy 30,000 before I can wind the bugger up. Jann has already decided to run it in two consecutive parts—presumably with Steadman’s art, and I see no point or hope in trying to fit the Vegas thing into AD/Aspen.
Beyond that, since you already have 20,000 finished words of a 50,000 word book, I don’t see any real problem with Rolling Stone; as I see it, they blew any control they might have had over the book rights by refusing to pay my expenses. I can still sell it to them, of course, but only if you reject it for RH.
I think you’d be crazy to do that. Line for line, the writing in Vegas is a highspeed minor classic—and beyond that, it’s the definitive epitaph statement for the Benevolent Drug Era of the ’60s. We are heading for a far more vicious time. We are already there, in fact, but it won’t become generally obvious for a year or so. Wenner & I have spent the past two nights, all night, hashing out meanings and trends and directions—and for the immediate future it’s all crazy/down, no matter how you look at it.
The only hope is a drastic political uprising—the kind of thing that would shock Birch Bayh & McGovern,33 and curdle whatever blood Teddy Kennedy has left.
Meanwhile, I am running full speed to finish Vegas Two. I assume you have all of Vegas One … and I hope you won’t push whatever prerogative you might have to include Vegas in the AD/Aspen book….
Unless you can convince me that I’m absolutely and finally wrong in the way I see the two books now … which is that Vegas and Aspen are two different stories. By putting them together, I think the style & tone of Vegas would fatally cripple any impact that the AD/Aspen book might have—and I think it might have quite a bit.
But not if the author is apparently whacked on ether & acid 25 hours a day.
On the other hand, I would kill the whole mad style of Vegas by trying to make it fit the AD/Aspen format.
Which leaves me in the position of having submitted a book to you—and expecting a reply in that context. If you’re worried about contractual hassles with Rolling Stone, forget it. Jann’s not going to hang me up on a book-contract, and neither will Alan [Rinzler]. They like you … which is weird, or maybe that’s just what they tell me.
Anyway, I’m willing to admit a touch of pushiness here, but even so, I’m sure you’ll take it in stride and give me a quick definitive word on two things:
1) I figure you have “the first third” of the AD/Aspen book in hand, which means you owe me $5000 or at least a detailed explanation of why you don’t … and;
2) I figure a submission of 20,000 finished words entitles me to some kind of tangible reaction from you inre: The Vegas book.
When you deal with both of these items I figure we’ll be well on the road to fame & fortune—and I intend to become increasingly savage on both fronts, if only for the sake of creating the kind of tension that will force me to get something finished and published. I have the first halves of two books sitting here on my desk, and it’s driving me crazy to sit here and stare at the fuckers.
Send word at once. Call. Come out for a visit. Do something. Anything. Help!
Sincerely,
Hunter
TO EUGENE W. MCGARR:
Thompson belatedly updated his old friend.
July 28, 1971
Woody Creek, CO
McGarr …
Inexcusable failure on my part. Totally inexcusable. Except in your case. You seem to have all the time in the world.
Anyway, I called you almost instantly after I got the phone message, but the phone rang dead. Maybe that was during your trip to SF … and then I began failing; not only with you, but with everybody.
&
But I don’t know what to tell her. What can I say? About my act? My life? My world & wherever it’s going? Who knows? About nine-tenths of the time I feel like an obvious fool—but the rest of the time I know I’m a saint & a hero. I seem to be in a state of conflict at all times—most of it wasted energy.
Fucking [Paul] Semonin came to town last night. Staying at a house down the road. I haven’t seen the bastard in three years—haven’t even heard from him, or even about him. But I know he’s down there… & it’s 9 a.m. now, which means I probably won’t sleep, so I guess I’ll see him soon.
Just stare at the fucker. What else? I have no idea what to say. And I’m not sure it matters. Horrible to think that the arrival of Semonin should boil down to just another hassle—just something else to cope with.
But it’s true. For a while I thought I was drifting off & turning weird … then I read over some of the stuff I wrote (even 10 years ago, like The Rum Diary) and I see that I’m still on dead center, for good or ill. I don’t seem to have learned much.
Clancy continues to plague me—but now that he’s legitimized his madness, it no longer seems quite as interesting. Maybe it’s the Belli34 syndrome. For a while I thought he was focused on a serious political freakout for ’72—a concept which occupies more & more of my time these days—but it turned out that he was looking for shuck/profits & another Pat Paulsen.35
[Tim] Thibeau was just here & told me about some heinous scene where the two of you went up to his airee (sp?) [aerie] and got the word about going out in the rowboat … which pretty well explains the kind of cheap gibberish he seems to be into now. Nine out of every ten sentences that pass his lips contain the phrase: “ripoff.” Tonight he is in Chicago, attending an organizing meeting for the “Fred Harris for President” campaign. All the Radicals are there. Clancy went with Warren Hinckle. The radical delegation from SF.
As for me … well, I’m the Sports Editor of Rolling Stone. How’s that for progress?
Around Oct 1, the plan is that I’ll move to Washington DC and write a political column for RS—until Nov ’72, at which time I’ll do something very active & definitive.
Meanwhile, I’m trying to finish two books at once. Oscar can tell you as much about them as I can. He’s crazy as a fucking loon, but for some reason I can handle Oscar’s kind of craziness—as opposed to Clancy’s. Oscar just sold his memoirs to the book division of Rolling Stone. The bastard had better deliver.
Which reminds me that I owe RS 20,000 words a/o yesterday. The second half of “Fear & Loathing in Vegas,” by Raoul Duke. Watch for it around October—first in the magazine & then in book form.
The other book is the political monster that I’ve owed Random House for 3 years … and for now it looks like the title will be “The Battle of Aspen” … using the framework of the two elections here to reflect on the past four years of national politics and other action.
Shit … I see that I’m writing a very informative letter. A far cry from yours of 6/24, which I found tonight in my “Deal With Immediately” pile. I find that if I don’t do something immediately, it never gets done.
Hopefully, I’ll get over to SF around the end of Sept, before moving out to Washington … and maybe you can get up there for a calm beer or two at that time. It occurs to me that the past few times I’ve seen you, I was essentially a spectator for your sex problems … or frenzies, as it were.
I think I mentioned this to you once or twice before—just about the time I got terminally tired of it. Oscar reports, however, that you still have a touch of Dork Fever—inre: that recent trip to SF. Maybe you didn’t spend enough time in locker rooms as a child; almost everybody has genitals, Gene. The coach wasn’t lying. We all fuck; we’re all beasts … and I’m honestly not trying to be nasty, here, but it’s puzzled me for quite a few years now that you seem to have felt that fucking was the highest & only worthwhile thing a man could get into.
Shit … that’s a cheap shot & I’m sorry for it. I know better, but it is a valid impression. Maybe if I can lash together the kind of stone-mad political uprising I have in mind for next year, we can put you to work on other orifices. The schedule is heavy & I’m already far behind. Too far. I’m beginning to get The Fear.
OK for now. Call or send word … and maybe I’ll see you in SF in about 6 weeks. Meanwhile, I guess Semonin says hello. I’ll find out, for sure, in about 10 minutes. Ciao …
H
TO LYNN NESBIT:
It was always so hard to find good help.
August 12, 1971
Woody Creek, CO
Dear Lynn …
You’d better watch your drinking, or whatever. Your call earlier tonight put me so off-balance that I couldn’t eat breakfast when I hung up. Normally I refuse to even answer the phone at that stage of my day, because my head doesn’t usually get functioning until about 3 hrs. after my body wakes up, but this time I sort of grabbed the thing automatically, thinking it was probably some kind of …
… but to hell with all that. Congratulations on your second revolutionary birth. And also to Richard [her husband]; along with a warning that I mean to stomp him into terminal poverty this autumn on the point-spreads. Tell him I’m already prepared to lay $100 at 5–1 that the 49ers will be in the Super Bowl … and only a lunatic would turn down a bet like that.
Indeed … and now to business:
I’ll assume there’s no doubt in anybody’s mind that we’re now talking about two books: Vegas, and the Battle of Aspen. Vegas is about two thirds finished at the moment. I’ll send both you & Jim a copy of the first 50 pages of Vegas 2 that I just shipped off to RS. That should give Silberman about 35,000 finished words, and that’s sure as hell enough for some serious contract talk … which is, of course, your gig.
The Ballantine hang-up is a definite problem. I hate to give them Vegas as a substitute for The Rum Diary, because—if I remember the origins of the two-book contract correctly—The RD was sort of thrown in for nothing. And Vegas seems like too good a thing to use for a contract breaker. I could rip off a ms. for that purpose in three days. For years I’ve wanted to write the Final Pornographic Novel, with an opening something like this:
“I kicked the fucking door off its hinges. The girl backed into a corner, trying to cover herself with the curtain. I could see she was going to scream, so I bashed her against the stove. She fell. I sat on her naked chest and pulled her front teeth with my Chinese bolt-cutting pliers. Then I grabbed her by the hair and forced my throbbing, uncircumcised member into her mouth … etc. etc.”
Yeah, one of those. I figure that kind of opening would make Ian Ballantine cry36—and god only knows what it would do to his wife. I owe that bastard something for sending me a check for $21.20 when I pleaded for a $1000 advance to pay off the taxman. (He finally sent me the grand last week, but not until Ballantine’s share was safe in the company vault.)
Anyway, if faced with the specter of having to use Vegas as a contract breaker, I’d prefer to send in a tentative draft of The Rum Diary, rewritten as above. I don’t think I’d have to submit more than 10 pages, to get us off the hook. You could explain that my numerous experiments with LSD have changed not only my writing style but my whole personality—and that I’ll never again be the same.
I figure Ballantine is worthless anyway. They blew the Hell’s Angels pb. distribution shamefully.
I’d feel a lot happier if we could make an arrangement of some kind with Shir-Cliff at Pocket Books. I’m not sure how good he is, for money-making, but I like his instincts. And he’s also a good person to drink with when I come to NY.
None of which matters a hell of a lot, I guess—except to emphasize that I think we can work out a cheaper way to dump that Ballantine contract than giving them Vegas.
Another angle on that, which I couldn’t mention on the phone today because Bert Schneider’s de facto protégé was
There are numerous other possibilities in this area, but I think I should push them a bit further before you get excited. One of the main difficulties, right now, is that I refuse to rent my guest house, for the winter, to Mike Burns (Schneider’s protégé), and this has led to a scurvy hellbroth of personal recriminations, etc.
What I may do, however—since the Washington gig seems definite by now—is rent the guest house to Burns, provided BBS takes a 6-month lease on the main house (mine). I’ll see about that tomorrow.
In any case, both Rafe & Schneider seem to be tied up for the next 6 months to a year—and so am I, for that matter: Once I get locked into the ’72 presidential campaign, I don’t want to have to be dealing with a film-script with my left hand on my off-hours. (Rafelson’s first comment on The Rum Diary, about 2 months ago, was “Can we do it before September?” Obviously we couldn’t … and his later comments led me to believe he knew that, when he said it. But when he began mumbling about Vegas….)
And so much for all that, for now. I’ll let you know just as soon as I smell a break … although the fact that I’ll be tied down in Washington for the next year doesn’t leave me open for seizing on anything quick. So let’s leave this one hanging for the moment….
Another thing to consider is that not going to Saigon blows that verbal contract I made with Rinzler for giving me an extra $5K for letting RS put my Vtnm articles into a book that would also be pub. by Random House. (When I say “contract” here, I refer to that brief conversation that I told you about, in which I said: “Yeah, that sounds OK to me, but of course you’ll have to talk to Lynn before anything is definite.”)