“There was only one road back to L.A., U.S. interstate 15. Just a flat-out high speed burn through Baker, and Barstow, and Berdoo. Then on to the Hollywood freeway straight into frantic oblivion. Safety… obscurity… just another freak in the freak kingdom. We’d gone in search of the American dream, it had been a lame fuck around. A waste of time. There was no point in looking back. Fuck no, not today, thank you kindly. My heart was filled with joy. I felt like a monster reincarnation of Horatio Algier, a man on the move, and just sick enough to be totally confident.”— Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
“Total control now. Tooling along the main drag on a Saturday night in Vegas. Two good old boys in a fire-apple red convertible. Stoned. Ripped. Twisted. Good people.”—Raoul Duke, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream (via thatspacecadetglow)
“Once we passed a pack of naked children stoning a dog beside the road. Sala stopped and took several pictures. ‘Jesus,’ he muttered, ‘look at those vicious little bastards! We’ll be lucky to get out of here alive.’”—Live Easy, Breathe Lightly.: The Rum Diary
“Music has always been a matter of energy for me, a question of Fuel. Sentimental people call it Inspiration, but what they really mean is Fuel.
I have always needed fuel. I am a serious consumer. On some nights I still believe that a car with the gas needle on empty can run about fifty more miles if you have the right music very loud on the radio. A new high-end Cadillac will go ten or fifteen miles faster if you give it a full dose of “Carmelita.”
…It happens over and over, and sooner or later you get hooked on it, you get addicted. Every time I hear “White Rabbit” I am back on the greasy midnight streets of San Francisco, looking for music, riding a fast red motorcycle downhill into The Presidio, leaning desperately into the curves through the eucalyptus trees, trying to get to the Matrix in time to hear Grace Slick play the flute.
There was no piped-in music on those nights, no headphones or Walkmans or even a plastic windscreen to keep off the rain. But I could hear the music anyway, even when it was five miles away. Once you heard the music done right, you could pack it into yr. brain & take it anywhere, forever.
Yessir, That is my wisdom and that is my song. It is Sunday and I am making new rules for myself. I will open my heart to spirits and pay more attention to animals. I will take some harp music and drive down to the Texaco station, where I can get a pork taco and read a New York Times. After that, I will walk across the street to the Post Office and slip my letter into her mailbox.”— Hunter S. Thompson, Kingdom of Fear
“…there is more to their stance than a wistful yearning for acceptance in a world they never made. Their real motivation is an instinctive certainty as to what the score really is. They are out of the ballgame and they know it. Unlike the campus rebels, who with a minimum amount of effort will emerge from their struggle with a validated ticket to status, the outlaw motorcyclist views the future with the baleful eye of a man with no upward mobility at all. In a world increasingly geared to specialists, technicians and fantastically complicated machinery, the Hell’s Angels are obvious losers and it bugs them. But instead of submitting quietly to their fate, they have made it the basis of a full time social vendetta. They don’t expect to win anything, but on the other hand, they have nothing to lose.”—Hunter S. Thompson, Hell’s Angels: A Strange and Terrible Saga (via numberonechineseladyrealtor)
“Like most of the others, I was a seeker, a mover, a malcontent, and at times a stupid hell-raiser. I was never idle long enough to do much thinking, but I felt somehow that my instincts were right. I shared a vagrant optimism that some of us were making real progress, that we had taken an honest road, and that the best of us would inevitably make it over the top. At the same time, I shared a dark suspicion that the life we were leading was a lost cause, that we were all actors, kidding ourselves along on a senseless odyssey. It was the tension between these two poles - a restless idealism on one hand and a sense of impending doom on the other - that kept me going.”—Hunter S. Thompson, The Rum Diary (via goingonzo)
“This is the main advantage of ether: it makes you behave like the village drunkard in some early Irish novel…total loss of all basic motor skills: Blurred vision, no balance, numb tongue-severance of all connection between the body and the brain. Which is interesting, because the brain continues to function more or less normally…you can actually watch yourself behaving in the terrible way, but you can’t control it.”— Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Hunter S. Thompson
“First, I do not live from orgy to orgy as I might have made you believe. I drink much less than most people think, and I think much more than most people would believe. I am quite sincere about some of the things which people take very lightly, and almost insultingly unconcerned about some of the things which people take most seriously. In short, I am basically antisocial: certainly not to an alarming degree, but just more so than I appear to be.”—Hunter S. Thompson. (via foreignplaces)
“So we shall let the reader answer this question for himself: who is the happier man, he who has braved the storm of life and lived or he who has stayed securely on shore and merely existed?”—Hunter S. Thompson (via strangetalesfromastrangetime)
“The patio was crowded, so we sat inside at the snack bar. All around us were people I had spent ten years avoiding - shapeless women in wool bathing suits, dull-eyed men with hairless legs and self-conscious laughs, all Americans, all fearsomely alike. These people should be kept at home, I thought; lock them in the basement of some goddamn Elks Club and keep them pacified with erotic movies; if they want a vacation, show them a foreign art film; and if they still aren’t satisfied, send them into the wilderness and run them with vicious dogs.”—Hunter S. Thompson - The Rum Diary (via bleunoirrouge)
“You approach the turnstiles leading into the circus and you know that when you get there you have to give the man 2 dollars or he won’t let you in. But when you get there everything goes wrong: you misjudge the distance to the turnstile and slam against it, bounce off and grab hold of an old woman to keep from falling, some angry rotarian shoves you and you think: What’s happening here? Whats going on? Then you hear yourself mumbling: “Dogs fucked the pope, no fault of mine. Watch out!… Why money? My name is Brinks; I was born… born? Get sheep over side… woman and children to armoured car… orders from captain Zeep. Ether is the perfect drug for Las Vegas. In this town they love a drunk. Fresh meat. So they put us through the turnstiles and turned us loose inside.”—Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (via susshii)
“I flew into Aspen and was greeted at the airport by Hunter in his ‘71 Chevy convertible, a.k.a. the Red Shark. I was sporting a woolen toque on my head, having already done the initial razoring to my skull. Hunter was leery to see what I was hiding under my cap. “Oh, Jesus… Let’s see it,” he reluctantly said. I whipped the fucker off and felt the wind on my bald pate. “Holy Christ! You look terrible… Fuck man… put that hat back on, it’s making me sick!”—Johnny Depp, on having shaved his head for his role in “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” (via strangetalesfromastrangetime)
"You’re the same way,” he said. “We’re all going to the same damn places, doing the same damn things people have been doing for fifty years, and we keep waiting for something to happen.” He looked up. “You know—I’m a rebel, I took off—now where’s my reward?”
“You fool,” I said. “There’s no reward and there never was.”
“Jesus,” he said. “That’s horrible.” He raised the bottle to his lips and finished it off. “We’re just drunkards,” he said, “helpless drunkards. To hell with it—I’ll go back some Godforsaken little town and be a fireman.”
“Perhaps he found what he came here for, but the odds are huge that he didn’t. He was an old, sick and very troubled man, and the illusion of peace and contentment was not enough for him. … So finally, and for what he must have thought the best of reasons, he ended it with a shotgun.”— Hunter S. Thompson, “What Lured Hemingway to Ketchum?” National Observer May 25, 1964 (via soultrane)