I speak no Spanish—tolerable French—but would have little trouble picking it up. As for the quality of my work, I’d be either the best or the worst sports editor you could get. I’d make great demands on the photographers, insist on laying out my own pages, write a column that might make some readers strain their intellects, and generally make every effort to produce what I considered the perfect sports section. If you’re looking for an easy-going hack, then I am not your man.
At the moment I am unemployed, and will continue to be until I locate a worthwhile job. Having been a sportswriter, sports editor, editorial trainee, and reporter—in that order—I have given up on American journalism. The decline of the American press has long been obvious, and my time is too valuable to waste in an effort to supply the “man in the street” with his daily quota of clichés, gossip, and erotic tripe. There is another concept of journalism, which you may or may not be familiar with. It’s engraved on a bronze plaque on the southeast corner of the Times Tower in New York City.11
In this letter, the clippings, and the résumé, you should have all you need to give you an idea of who I am. If you’re interested in me, then I’d like to know something about you, the paper, and the sports editor’s job. Right now, though, I must get back to my novel. By the time you get this letter the first section of the book will be at the Viking Press in New York; by the time the paper starts in November, the book will be finished. After that, who knows?
And whatever you decide, please return my clippings.
Thanks,
Hunter S. Thompson
return address:
2437 Ransdell Avenue
Louisville 4, Kentucky
TO VIRGINIA THOMPSON:
After being evicted from his cabin Thompson took up residence in Annie and Fred Schoelkopf’s basement apartment in nearby Otisville. The Schoelkopfs took a real shine to Thompson, cooking him nightly meals and providing him with cash to finish “Prince Jellyfish.”
August 9, 1959
Otisville, New York
Dear Mom,
If my recent letters have been devoid of good and cheerful news, there is a damned good reason. I’ve been wound up in a series of mild disasters here; nothing serious, but the kind of thing that might drive a less resilient person straight out of his wits. Here’s a short rundown:
a) I was evicted
b) the steering mechanism on the car went bad
c) I couldn’t move the car out of the driveway, and the landlord jacked it up and took a wheel in lieu of payment for a light bill
d) I had the landlord arrested
e) my unemployment insurance was cut off
f) no sooner had I fixed the steering mechanism than the car virtually fell to pieces
g) the car insurance was cut off because I couldn’t make the second-to-last payment
h) and now I find that my driver’s license has expired, and I can’t even drive the car to New York to sell it for junk.
The car still runs—not safely and just barely—and I think I can get either [Paul] Semonin or Forbes12 to come up here and drive it to New York for me. Once I get it there I can get a little money for it, anyway. It’s a hell of a deal, but right now I don’t have much choice.
Actually, this all sounds worse than it is. All these things happened in the space of about a week, and it just about un-nerved me. If it hadn’t been for Annie and Fred Schoelkopf, god knows what sort of dire fate I’d have come to.
You may not appreciate this—and I know Memo will hate it like hell—but what I’m going to do now is come back to Louisville, shut myself in the back bedroom, and finish this novel. It’s about half finished now, and I’m never going to get it done if I have to continue this wild scramble merely to stay alive and eating. I told Viking Press I’d have the first half of it to them by the end of the summer. They haven’t by any means promised to publish it, but their interest is the only bright spot in what is now a very bleak immediate future. I will finish the rest of it in Louisville, and then leave. I do not intend to get a job while I’m there, and neither do I intend to cost you any money. I merely want a little peace and quiet so I can get something done.
I will explain more fully when I calm down. Right now it’s all I can do to sit here and see these damned typewriter keys.
Love, HST
TO THE NEW YORK DEPARTMENT OF LABOR, DIVISION OF UNEMPLOYMENT INSURANCE:
Thompson tried using legalistic language to explain to the New York Department of Labor the fickleness of its unemployment insurance policy. His argument drew no response. Shortly after writing this, Thompson, after a brief stay in Virginia Beach, hitchhiked home to Louisville to finish “Prince Jellyfish.”
August 10, 1959
Otisville, New York
New York Department of Labor
Division of Unemployment Insurance
Albany, New York
Gentlemen,
After drawing unemployment insurance for four and a half months, I was recently declared ineligible. The facts of the case are such that only a malicious cretin could come to such a conclusion. It is my earnest hope that you will investigate this matter and reverse the decision which rendered me ineligible.
Your local office in Middletown handled the case. My social security number is xxx-xx-xxxx; my records are on file in that office.
I shall not attempt, in this letter, to outline the entire history of my case, but the pertinent facts are these:
A) I am a newspaper reporter and have been for three years.
B) Near the end of February I was fired from my job as a reporter with the Daily Record, Middletown, New York.
C) Soon afterwards I began drawing thirty dollars a week in unemployment insurance. This continued for four and a half months. No effort was made to find me a job in my field, no one questioned the fact that I was eligible for my checks, and during that time I somehow managed to live on this meager pittance.
D) Several weeks ago, finding myself in particularly desperate financial straits, I worked for four days at a laboring job—tearing up railroad tracks for the Ohio Salvage and Equipment Company. I got this job on my own and made no attempt to collect my check that week.
E) On the fifth day, I was unable to go to work. I was completely exhausted, my eyes had swollen up like golf balls, and I decided not to go to work.
F) On the following Monday my car broke down, making it impossible for me to go to work even if I’d been physically able. I had difficulty getting the part, and decided to go back and sign for a check that week.
G) I was not allowed to sign, and have not been allowed to sign since then. I have been told that work “is available” for me—in the form of a railroad laborer’s job. I protested this decision, but my protest was denied. This is how the matter stands at the moment.
But as I said before, all this information is available at the Middletown office. I have written to you because I am tired of being told that “work is available.” Of course work is available: and if it’s available to me—a newspaper reporter—it’s available to every other able-bodied man presently drawing unemployment insurance in Middletown. The primary fact of the case is this: my situation is absolutely unchanged from the way it stood for the first four and a half months of the period since I was employed. All I did was go out and make an attempt to pick up a few extra dollars on a laboring job. The job was too exhausting; it caused my eyes to swell up, put me in close contact with poison ivy (to which I am allergic), and was not in my line of work in the first place. It seems perfectly ridiculous that I should have been declared ineligible because of this.
I realize, of course, that this situation is absurd. It is the very nadir of slovenly gall for a man to demand his unemployment insurance. Nevertheless, this country functions under a system of economics which assumes that close to five percent of the work force will be perpetually unemployed. There are provisions for this, and your office happens to be one of the provisions. I therefore feel entitled to this money,
and see no reason why it should be denied me.
In summation, let me say this: if the time ever comes when I find myself collecting unemployment insurance again, you may be damned well certain that I’ll make no effort to find myself any work of any kind. In this case I tried and was consequently declared ineligible for further benefits. And if it makes sense to you that your system should foster reasoning of this kind, then I fail to see that the system itself is anything more than a giant, bureaucratic joke.
I say these things not to malign your office, but to point out to you the faulty reasoning which has brought this case to your attention. If you need any further information from me, I can be reached: c/o Fred Schoelkopf, Otisville, New York.
In closing, I remain,
Very Sincerely,
Hunter S. Thompson
FROM WILLIAM J. KENNEDY, SAN JUAN STAR:
The publisher of the San Juan Star had his thirty-one-year-old editor—William Kennedy of Albany, New York—respond to Thompson’s job inquiry. Kennedy, who had first come to Puerto Rico in 1956, would go on to win the 1984 Pulitzer Prize for his novel Ironweed.
August 25, 1959
Puerto Rico
Mr. Hunter S. Thompson
2437 Ransdell Avenue
Louisville 4, Kentucky
Dear Mr. Thompson:
After giving careful consideration to your application, we have decided that for several reasons you would not be happy with us.
First, our publisher is a member of Rotary.
Second, your literary accomplishments would not really single you out as “off beat,” since three of our staff members have also finished novels and one is a playwright.
Third, our policy will probably be aimed at “the man in the street,” since that encompasses all but shut-ins and hermits, and there are not enough shut-ins and hermits in Puerto Rico to build the circulation we’re aiming at.
We feel you had best return to your novel, perhaps even start another. You could build the plot around that bronze plaque on the Times Tower. You should always write about something you know intimately.
Too bad we couldn’t get together. Lots of people go shoeless down here. You would have liked it.
We’re keeping your application on file. If we ever get a candy machine and need someone to kick it in,13 we’ll get in touch with you.
Yours in zen,
William J. Kennedy
Managing Editor
TO WILLIAM J. KENNEDY, SAN JUAN STAR:
Livid at the snide tone of the Star’s reply, for weeks Thompson daydreamed of finding a way to get to Puerto Rico just to pummel William Kennedy.
August 30, 1959
2437 Ransdell Ave.
Louisville, Kentucky
your letter was cute, my friend, and your interpretation of my letter was beautifully typical of the cretin-intellect responsible for the dry-rot of the american press, but don’t think that lack of an invitation from you will keep me from getting down that way, and when i do remind me to first kick your teeth in and then jam a bronze plaque far into your small intestine.
give my best to your “literary” staff and your rotarian publisher, if they’re half as cute as you are, your paper will be a whomping success.
i think, also, that i need not point out the folly of your keeping my application on file.
cheers:
Hunter S. Thompson
TO WILLIAM STYRON:
Thompson appealed to Styron, his favorite contemporary writer and a stranger, for help in finding a first-class literary agent. Styron responded immediately, recommending his own agent, Elizabeth McKee.
September 4, 1959
2437 Ransdell Ave.
Louisville, Kentucky
Mr. Styron,
If you have a spare moment sometime soon, I wonder if you’d shoot me a line of advice. I’m just about through with a novel that I’d like very much to sell, but I’m not sure whether I should take it around to publishers or send it to an agent. Several weeks ago I took it to Viking Press, and this morning it came back to me with a very pleasant “thanks, but no thanks” note attached to the front page. No criticism of any kind. If this continues to happen I could easily spend a year trying to sell the damned thing, without ever finding out what’s wrong with it.
I’ve been told—or advised—to send it to an agent, and if this is what I should do I wonder if you’d either recommend one or give me the name and address of yours. I wonder also if you’d tell me how you went about getting Lie Down in Darkness published. And with the mention of that book, allow me to doff my cap and banish any thought of flattery when I say it’s without a doubt the finest book written in this country since the Second World War. I shall be highly pleased if mine is half as good.
I shall be here in Louisville until I finish this book, probably around October 1. At that time I’ll head back to New York, where I’ve existed for the past two years. So if you can get that information to me before I leave here, I shall be most happy.
I presume you’re pretty busy with your new book right now, but sometime later in the fall, when you have a spare hour or two, I’d like to hustle up to Roxbury14 for a beer and a few moments of conversation. I’m not sure that either of us would find this particularly edifying, but I mention it here because it seems at the moment to be something I’d like very much to do.
But I, unlike the Pepsi-Cola people,15 am not in a position right now to be sociable. My primary concern is to get this book finished and sold. If you can offer a word or two of advice on this subject—specifically, the name of a decent agent—I shall be eternally grateful.
Sincerely,
Hunter S. Thompson
TO JACK BENSON, VIKING PRESS:
Benson had rejected “Prince Jellyfish” by form letter.
September 5, 1959
2437 Ransdell Ave.
Louisville, Kentucky
Jack Benson
Viking Press
New York City
Sir,
Manuscript arrived yesterday, as you predicted. Sorry to bother you with that letter.
Sorry also that you would not “care to publish” the book. It is my intention to make you rue the day you wrote that letter. I say this without rancor, of course, and I’m sure you’ll understand my attitude. Accepting your judgment, in my case, would be suicide.
Naturally I regret that you had neither the time nor the inclination to include so much as a hint as to WHY you didn’t care for the book. I’m not asking you for an explanation, but it seems to me that at least one sentence of criticism wouldn’t be too back-breaking a chore for someone whom I can only assume to be a competent judge of manuscripts. Please understand that I appreciate your politeness and your immediate reply to my recent letter. I would have preferred, however, an honest opinion—however short or brutal—of whatever fault you found with the manuscript. But as I said before, I’m not requesting a re-evaluation of my work. It’s just something you might think about.
In closing, let me thank you again for your kind cooperation.
Sincerely,
Hunter S. Thompson
FROM WILLIAM J. KENNEDY:
Instead of quaking at Thompson’s letter threat of August 30, Kennedy saw it as a challenge—and offered Thompson an interesting opportunity.
September 8, 1959
San Juan, Puerto Rico
Mr. Hunter Thompson
2437 Ransdell Avenue
Louisville, Kentucky
Friend Hunter:
You are probably not as good as you think you are and probably only half as irrational as you seem.
The fact is, we considered hiring you for a moment on the basis of your entertainment value alone. Also, we were after something other than a happy hack. Then we got to that bronze plaque paragraph and you faded away, Hunter. You faded away.
Only, however, as an employee.
We are still ready to regard you, as you regard yourself, as the bushy-tailed expert on the dry rot of American
journalism. And to this end we are offering you a deal.
If you want to expend the time to summarize your feelings on what’s wrong with American jouralism in, say, three or so double-spaced pages, we will run this in our first edition, presently planned for November 2nd. We will pay you at regular space rates, which are still to be established.
In order to make clear the reason for this contribution we would also want to print some of the correspondence leading up to the article, in which case we would want your permission to use your letters to us.
You can be as disagreeable in the article as you normally are otherwise. Just don’t run off at the mouth. We’re tabloid size.
The thought occurs that your disdain for our as yet unpublished publication will deter you from this task. Offhand I don’t know of another publication which would give you the time of day, so if you mean that dry rot business, here is your chance to put up or shut up.
Intestinally yours,
William J. Kennedy
Managing Editor
TO WILLIAM J. KENNEDY, SAN JUAN STAR:
Thus began a correspondence that has lasted nearly forty years.
September 10, 1959
2437 Ransdell Ave.
Louisville 4, Kentucky
Daddio! You mean the bronze plaque paragraph bugged you? Why hell-fire, I thought it was the swinginest thing I’ve writ in years. I mean, man, it was vivid!
And so much for that. I don’t mind saying, friend Kennedy, that I enjoyed your letter. This is a weird bit of correspondence we have here, my man, and I don’t know whether it makes me laugh or cry. Actually, I enjoyed your first letter, too, and took great pleasure in composing my reply. It’s relationships like this that make our short lives worthwhile.
Your smug challenge, however, gives me considerable pause. If you’re serious—and I mean serious enough to think I’ll attempt a definitive essay on “The Dry Rot of the American Press” in three double-spaced pages—then I can only assume that your tragic optimism is exceeded only by your appalling inability to see either the scope or the seriousness of the problem you ask me to explain. Surely you’re aware that the “dry rot” of the press has its roots in the psychopathic complacency of the American public … which can be blamed almost entirely on inadequate facilities for information and education … for which the press is in large part responsible … and for which it is suffering now because newspaper men have become a breed of useless hacks and gossip-mongers … and so on and so on in that familiar vicious cycle which can have its end only in the eventual disintegration of the greatest and most optimistic political experiment in the history of man.…