On Hunter S. Thompson

“What the hell is this goddamn gabacho pig writer doing here?”
A vato loco about Hunter S. Thompson, “Strange Rumblings in Aztlán.”

Intertextual: adj. Relating to or deriving meaning from the interdependent ways in which texts stand in relation to each other.
American Heritage Dictionary


One of the greatest pleasures in literature is discovering the intimate links, previously unknown to one, that exist between different texts. In moments like these, the kaleidoscope of the reading experience congeals to form a vibrant, colorful, yet crystal clear picture that is capable of making our lives more luminous, sometimes altering them forever.

Twenty-five years ago, a friend urged me to read Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. And at last, a quarter of a century later, while my wife and I were in North Carolina over Christmas to visit her family, I was thrilled to see that my father-in-law had checked out a copy Thompson’s classic work from his local library. It was a fairly recent edition (1996), published by the Modern Library Collection, and titled Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and Other American Stories.

At once I plunged into Fear and Loathing, finishing after only a couple of days, which is truly remarkable for a slow reader like me. From the onset I was engrossed, absolutely loving the hallucinatory anarchy of Raoul Duke’s (and his Samoan lawyer’s) outrageous adventures. I’ve never consumed LSD; nor have I ever engaged in a binge of epic proportions, such as the one described in the story. But now, after reading Thompson fictional account of a freelance reporter on assignment in Las Vegas, I feel as if I had. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is, indeed, an absolutely astounding feat of creative writing as Thompson deftly takes his readers straight into the heart of lunacy.

Once I had finished this highly-regarded novella, I started to leaf through the rest of the book and came across the essay “Strange Rumblings in Aztlán.” This piece of investigative journalism, originally published in Rolling Stone Magazine (as was Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas), deals with the death of Mexican-American reporter Rubén Salazar at the hands of the Los Angeles Sheriff Department during the East L.A. riots of August, 1970. What was is store for me was one of those magical moments when the life-ties between distinctly different texts reveal themselves: the connection between the Chicano writer, lawyer, and social activist, Oscar Acosta, and the Samoan lawyer of Fear and Loathing became tangible and my pulse accelerated.

I had always known that Acosta served as the whole cloth model for the lawyer of Fear and Loathing, but thanks to “Strange Rumblings in Aztlán,” his relationship with Thompson as well as the critical role he played during that crucial yet tragic moment in the history of the Chicano Movement became clear. (And knowing this now helps me understand why the noted Hispanist Ilan Stavans became so obsessed with Oscar Acosta that he authored the book Bandido: The Death and Resurrection of Oscar “Zeta” Acosta). I was impressed with Hunter S. Thompson’s grasp of the dilemmas Mexican-Americans faced at that point in time (and disheartened by how little things have changed) and I now believe, and firmly, that his documentation of this event should be required reading for anyone interested in the history of U.S. Latinos. I doubt that anyone else recorded the turmoil of the East Los Angeles riots and Rubén Salazar's death with such lucidity.

And then, while again flipping through the pages of the book, I came across the essay titled “Jacket Copy for Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream.” Reading Thompson’s account of the circumstances that led to the writing of Fear and Loathing—and in the slightly altered order in which I read the three pieces—constitutes one of those radiant experiences that makes a reader thankful for gifted writers. The entire portrait, the translucent connection between the riots, Rubén Salazar, and the chaotic tale of Fear and Loathing was rendered naked. I could see, and plainly, how the death of Rubén Salazar, the civil rights struggle of Oscar Acosta, Hunter S. Thompson, the Samoan lawyer, and Raoul Duke are all part of a mosaic, a puzzle of history and fiction, that perfectly depicts the turmoil of the late 60s and early 70s.

In learning how Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas came to be, I couldn’t help but be in awe of the burst of genius, of that unadulterated visit from the muses that accompanied Hunter S. Thompson during those days when he performed what perhaps will be remembered as his best writing, and which has, deservedly, earned him a spot in the American literary pantheon.