March302013
“I was never idle long enough to do much thinking, but I felt somehow that some of us were making real progress, that we were taking an honest road, and that some 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 vagrantoptimism)
March292013
“Crackling, twisted, searing, paced to a deft prose rhythm…A shot of Gonzo with a rum chaser.” San Francisco Chronicle, blurb for Hunter S. Thompson’s The Rum Diary (via snagamat)

(Source: hoomanao)

March252013
“and the sad notes floated out to the
patio and hung in the trees like birds too tired to fly” Hunter S. Thompson (via pollgold)
March142013
“The scene I had just witnessed brought back a lot of memories – not of things I had done but of things I had failed to do, wasted hours and frustrated moments and opportunities forever lost because time had eaten so much of my life and I would never get it back. I envied Yeoman and felt sorry for myself at the same time, because I had seen him in a moment that made all my happiness seem dull.” Hunter S Thompson, The Rum Diary (via whothefuckryouu)
1PM
“There was an awful suspicion in my mind that I’d finally gone over the hump, and the worst thing about it was that I didn’t feel tragic at all, but only weary, and sort of comfortably detached.” Hunter S. Thompson, The Rum Diary (via kerryquotesquotes)
February262013
February72013
“Wake up and ponder the future,” I said over my shoulder. “I quit tonight and got tired about two minutes later.” The Rum Diary by Hunter S. Thompson (via darling-nicky)
February12013
amorningwaltz:

All manner of men came to work for the News: everything from wild young Turks who wanted to rip the world in half and start all over again — to tired, beer-bellied old hacks who wanted nothing more than to live out their days in peace before a bunch of lunatics ripped the world in half.
They ran the whole gamut from genuine talents and honest men, to degenerates and hopeless losers who could barely write a postcard — loons and fugitives and dangerous drunks, a shoplifting Cuban who carried a gun in his armpit, a half-wit Mexican who molested small children, pimps and pederasts and human chancres of every description, most of them working just long enough to make the price of a few drinks and a plane ticket.
On the other hand, there were people like Tom Vanderwitz, who later worked for the Washington Post and won a Pulitzer Prize. And a man named Tyrrell, now an editor of the London Times, who worked fifteen hours a day just to keep the paper from going under.
When I arrived the News was three years old and Ed Lotterman was on the verge of a breakdown. To hear him talk you would think he’d been sitting at the very cross-comers of the earth, seeing himself as a combination of God, Pulitzer and the Salvation Army. He often swore that if all the people who had worked for the paper in those years could appear at one time before the throne of The Almighty — if they all stood there and recited their histories and their quirks and their crimes and their deviations — there was no doubt in his mind that God himself would fall down in a swoon and tear his hair…
…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.
The Rum Diary

amorningwaltz:

All manner of men came to work for the News: everything from wild young Turks who wanted to rip the world in half and start all over again — to tired, beer-bellied old hacks who wanted nothing more than to live out their days in peace before a bunch of lunatics ripped the world in half.

They ran the whole gamut from genuine talents and honest men, to degenerates and hopeless losers who could barely write a postcard — loons and fugitives and dangerous drunks, a shoplifting Cuban who carried a gun in his armpit, a half-wit Mexican who molested small children, pimps and pederasts and human chancres of every description, most of them working just long enough to make the price of a few drinks and a plane ticket.

On the other hand, there were people like Tom Vanderwitz, who later worked for the Washington Post and won a Pulitzer Prize. And a man named Tyrrell, now an editor of the London Times, who worked fifteen hours a day just to keep the paper from going under.

When I arrived the News was three years old and Ed Lotterman was on the verge of a breakdown. To hear him talk you would think he’d been sitting at the very cross-comers of the earth, seeing himself as a combination of God, Pulitzer and the Salvation Army. He often swore that if all the people who had worked for the paper in those years could appear at one time before the throne of The Almighty — if they all stood there and recited their histories and their quirks and their crimes and their deviations — there was no doubt in his mind that God himself would fall down in a swoon and tear his hair…

…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.

The Rum Diary

3PM
“…if a man could muster the guts or even the desperation to move a few thousand miles there was a pretty good chance that he’d have money in his pocket and meat in his belly and one hell of a romping good time.” —Hunter S. Thompson, from The Rum Diary (via asoundthatquakes)
December262012
“On the way down the hill we walked three abreast in the cobblestone street, drunk and laughing and talking like men who knew they would separate at dawn and travel to the far corners of the earth.” Hunter S. Thompson, The Rum Diary (via :
December182012
December72012
herlifeunedited:

“Okay you lazy bitch, I’m getting tired of this waterhead fuckaround that you’re doing with The Rum Diary.”

herlifeunedited:

“Okay you lazy bitch, I’m getting tired of this waterhead fuckaround that you’re doing with The Rum Diary.”

(Source: imharperfinch)

December52012
December12012
“He had come so far from himself that I don’t think he knew who he was anymore.” Hunter S. Thompson, The Rum Diary  (via dudeitsemilyyrae)

(Source: blue-eyed-gypsy)

1PM
“It was a pleasant place to drink, especially in the mornings when the sun was still cool and the salt mist came up from the ocean to give the air a crisp, healthy smell that for a few early hours would hold it’s own against the steaming, sweaty heat that clamps San Juan at noon and remains until long after sundown.” The Rum Diary by Hunter S. Thompson (via graceatx)

(Source: easyy-tiger)

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