Proud Highway:Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman (41 page)

Swim or be bowled over.

Cheers:
Hunter

TO EDITOR, GROVE PRESS
:

July 24, 1960
New York City

Editor, Grove Press
64 University Place
NYC

Sir:

This is to introduce you to
Prince Jellyfish
, a manuscript that seems to amuse no one but myself. If, after reading it, you can work up some enthusiasm for seeing it through to the bookshelves, I can promise you my full cooperation.

It has been rejected—for various and generally inane reasons—by three reputable publishing houses. Why, I can't say—even after pondering these dim judgments on every level of meaning.

Naturally, the damn thing has its faults. But after reading it tonight—having not laid eyes on it for six months—I think most of its faults are balanced by an overall liveliness that, to me, is damned refreshing. Contemporary literature, hag-ridden as it is with boredom and pretentious despair, could certainly do with a breath of fresh air. I'm in no position to guarantee that
Prince Jellyfish
will emerge as a panacea for all our literary ills. At best, it is no more than a minor novel. But it's not dull, and I think its chief merit is a romping, rudderless pace that reflects—with overtones of warped laughter—the sad and pompous lunacy of our times.

I don't expect this highly partisan judgment to carry much weight in publishing circles, however, so I'll leave all further evaluation up to you. It would take me a month of steady work to finish the book, but I don't see much sense in undergoing this sort of punishment without some hope of ultimate publication. If you think we can get together on this score, please let me hear from you as soon as possible.

Sincerely,
Hunter S. Thompson
c/o Conklin
107 Thompson St.
NYC 12

TO VIRGINIA THOMPSON
:

After McGarr bailed them out of their financial troubles in Bermuda, Thompson and company returned to New York to regroup; Sandy Conklin got a job with United Airlines, and Thompson began his Caribbean novel
.

August 9, 1960
New York City

Dear Mom:

Don't know why I haven't managed to write before this, but I guess it's because I've been waiting for things to settle down—and they haven't.

Sandy is working, and I spend most of my time here in the apt., writing like hell. The novel bounced again, and I've about given up hope of publishing it in the present form. On the brighter side, my agent has been pretty happy with the two short stories I've given her. This may or may not mean anything, but it's encouraging.

The
Herald Tribune
commissioned me to do another travel article today, and I think one of the things I did on Puerto Rico will appear this Sunday. You can probably get the
Trib
on Monday at Readmore. If not this Sunday, it will almost definitely appear the next.

I haven't done much journalism recently, but have been working primarily on fiction. I went on the quiz show
¹²
last Monday, but it was such a short and mediocre performance that I didn't see much sense in warning you. The show (ABC) doesn't get to Louisville, anyway, and it wasn't worth the trouble of driving even three blocks to see. I won $50, but blew the question worth $300.

As for your question about “ideas and money,” I still have plenty of ideas and no money. As a matter of fact, I still owe McGarr $150. He sent us $200 in Bermuda, or we'd have never gotten off the damn island. I shall be completely broke until I get the debt paid. It was the money he was saving for his passage back to the States, and I have to get it back to him right away.

Sandy is working, and makes enough for us to eat on. On October 1, she is going to Florida to run her mother's travel agency until Thanksgiving.
¹³
I'm not sure what I'll be doing for those two months, but I'll probably be able to get to Louisville somewhere in the interim. We just decided all this tonight, so I'll have to wait a while before I can say anything definite. A lot will depend on what happens here in the next few weeks. I've put out some
tentative feelers for a job, but I really can't work up much enthusiasm for the sort of thing that seems to be available. Yesterday I was considering a job on the
National Jewish Post
. When I woke up today, however, it seemed like a bad dream.

I think your decision to leave Naval Ordnance is a wise one. From what I gather, the job is too rotten to tolerate. By all means, try to find something you like.

I am fine, physically (a bit on the heavy side, thanks to Sandy's cookery), and a bit confused, mentally. Now that my own belief in my talent has been at least partially corroborated, I can't understand why I'm still as poverty-stricken as I always was. I have a sort of stupid faith that checks will arrive in the mail “very soon.” Lord knows why, but until something jolts me out of this, I'll probably keep on behaving like a solvent writer.

Love,
Hunter

August 10, 1960
New York City

Dear Bill:

Thought you'd be interested to know Prince Jellyfish bounced again, for the third and final time. I say “final” because I've decided it's not really a very good book. Maybe I can break it up into one or two fairly clever short stories. If not, I'll just chalk that year up to experience and start on that “Great Puerto Rican Novel” that I mentioned just before I left.

My real reason for writing is not just to tell you the book bounced, but, for some reason, you were the first person who came to mind when I read the rejection letter—just after the postman had awakened me to deliver the damned thing. It was one of those mimeographed things that went to great lengths to explain why they couldn't write a personal letter—and the bastard made me so mad that I was on the verge of calling Grove Press and demanding an explanation. I wasn't too mad because they'd dared to send
me
a form letter—because this is the second time it's happened in three tries. It was just the idea of the goddamn things, and—perhaps because I was looking for a good example with which to justify my pique—I thought of you and that book you were working on when I was there.
¹⁴

I don't know if you got a form letter or not—and it doesn't matter, because it's entirely possible that you did. I know you were much more emotionally
involved than I was in mine, and the idea that some lackwit quipster could sit up there and stick a mimeographed reject note on that much physical, mental and emotional effort is just about more than I can tolerate.

Maybe I'm just kidding myself when I say it bothers me much more in your case than it does in mine, but I don't think so. As a matter of fact, I can think of several unpublished writers that I have a lot more compassion for than I do for myself. I've compromised myself so often that I can't honestly see myself as a martyr anymore. I could once, and—although I think I'm probably better off as an opportunist with a large and ill-formed talent—I think every now and then that I'd like to be able to talk from a martyr's point of view, to really be righteous—if for no other reason than to give the quipsters a taste of a pure blue flame.

I guess that's why I'm looking for somebody else to get mad for. You're no martyr, but I think you approach your writing more honestly than I do mine. I'm too greedy to wish you much luck, but if you can break through without stepping on my head, I hope you make it.

Now for the mundane side of things. I am back in Greenwich Village, writing like a bastard and laboring under the illusion that it will someday make me rich. Not working; Sandy is. Semonin is living uptown with two girls. Bone living on far Lower East Side. Sorry to hear about your mother's death. I was hoping you'd find some way to get hold of me when you came through New York. Sorry you didn't. Bone will probably get a job. I probably won't. Sandy is leaving for Florida on October 1 to run her mother's travel agency for two months. I'd like to hitchhike for a while, so I think I'll go out to Chicago and then to Louisville. Semonin is probably going to Colorado for the winter. I shall—by hook, crook, or armed robbery—get to Europe by spring. I did not charge any long-distance calls to the
Star
and I'm tired of being accused of things like that. My assaults are usually more frontal—or at least more damaging. I finally sold the Vieques article to the
Trib
. Don't pay that bill. I am seeing O'Conner
¹⁵
Friday and will be very indignant about it. I gave them a decent mention in a piece the
Trib
is using this Sunday (if it hasn't been cut) and I don't think we'll have any trouble dodging that $18.

What is the status of my gear? Is everything still there? Don't worry about it not being paid for in Louisville. If it's cheaper, send it all to the original Deland address (Mrs. Leah Conklin, 116 W. Rich St.). But for god's sake send it COD. I have my debts divided into “general” and “personal”—and I can't stand any more in the personal column. […]

And that's about it. Drop me a line as soon as you can. I get tired of reading my own copy, and letters tend to give me a fresh perspective.

Cheers:
Hunter

Sandy Conklin's closest friend had written her a highly personal letter about the “meaning of love.” After happening upon the beautiful composition Thompson felt compelled to confess to snooping—and more important, to salute Eleanor's keen perceptions
.

August 17, 1960
New York City

Dear Eleanor:

In the course of looking for a letter from my mother to Sandy, I came across one of those long blue sheets that I recognized instantly as some of your Fatboy's [Eugene McGarr's] stationery. Thinking that Sandy had stolen one of my letters, I seized it and looked to see which one it was. Strangely enough, it was not Fatboy's at all, but a letter from you to Sandy.

Were I possessed of a single decent impulse, I no doubt would have stuck it back in the bundle without reading a line. This, of course, I did not do—but followed my curious nose through the whole damn letter, giggling in a rotten way at my totally unwarranted invasion of my little companion's privacy; which, after living this long with me, is about all she has left.

The letter was dated February 19 of this year, and after reading it I felt a definite compulsion to write you. Perhaps I chose this way to confess because it will purge my mind of guilt without actually having to admit to Sandy that I've been rooting in her mail. But I don't think so. The reason I give myself for writing is very different.

In a nutshell, I have never been privileged to read such an overwhelmingly lucid, honest and pertinent letter. Nor have I ever witnessed a female mind functioning with such cool perception and warm sensitivity at the same time. After reading the entire thing I don't feel a twinge of guilt, but rather a genuine sense of regret that your letter made all mine—and all those I've received, for that matter—seem so shallow and so giddy.

Although I hesitate to single out parts or paragraphs, I should probably give you some examples so you'll know what I'm talking about.

1) “I suspect you of cherishing a dream that you will find some man who will provide the central meaning in your life. I distrust this dream because I believe that the central meaning must come from yourself. If you can't
find it there you won't find it … In fact, I wonder if it is possible to love without having achieved a degree of personal fulfillment within oneself.”

2) “But I can't help wondering if you aren't actually drifting into one thing or another since you don't mention having any sort of plan as to what you are going to do. I don't mean a job, of course, but something that you consider important.”

3) “… but this we know, that the soil will be there, and that if we do not kill one another off someone will be there to dig and plant and fight the weevils and bitch about taxes and raise his children and bury his parents and live and die. This doesn't change …” (sounds like Faulkner out of Fatboy).

4) “Love neither adds to a person nor takes from him, although he both gives and receives. It must be given and accepted for its own sake, and not as a means to anything else, because it just isn't any of those things. Nor is it sufficient for a person who has nothing else.… Love just isn't a panacea.…”

These are just a few of the things that had me sucking violently on my cigarette as I read your letter. Points 1, 2 & 4 describe Sandy's problem so completely that I had an urge to hang onto the letter and shove it in her face when she gets home, shouting “There! There! Isn't this what I've been saying? Will you believe me now that Eleanor says the same thing?”

To be altogether honest, I've always implied, rather than stated. And the reason I haven't said exactly what you did is that I felt it would be hitting below the belt. Her capacity for love is her only big talent, and she banks on it like I bank on my writing. I can't bring myself to belittle it because if I crippled that I don't know what she'd have left. Falling in love, to Sandy, is like hitting the jackpot on a big quiz show—once you answer the Big Question, your worries are over.

Well, that's not quite the way it is, and I tried to explain to her last night that we are all alone, born alone, die alone, and—in spite of
True Romance
magazines—we shall all someday look back on our lives and see that, in spite of our company, we were alone the whole way. I do not say
lonely
—at least, not all the time—but essentially, and finally, alone.

This is what makes your self-respect so important, and I don't see how you can respect yourself if you must look in the hearts and minds of others for your happiness.

In your letter, you asked her several times what she thought of your words and ideas. I don't know what she told you, but when you write her again I wish you would hit the same nerve. The same words, coming from me, would have a different meaning to her. She respects your mind tremendously, and—although I'm sure she respects mine too—I cannot say those things without hurting her.