Hunter, Hunter, we barely knew ye, and yet, we knew ye so well.
Yes, a strange world and so much stranger since you left us.
And in some ways, so much less strange.
The amount of substance you ingested would’ve killed a normal man, but you weren’t normal, thank God. It was both your blessing and your curse.
Fear, the only thing worth killing, I think,
and definitely worth having in your sights.
That’s the thing, Hunter.
We really don’t have to look too deeply to find
the wisdom in those statements.
Some people haven’t looked.
But some of us have.
How interesting it would have been for Aspen to have had Hunter as sheriff.
Very interesting, indeed. A missed opportunity, in my book.
Bet they’re sorry.
The world sure is dull without you, Hunter.
I loved your twisted literature.
Oh, I know, they call it journalism.
I call it literature.
In an October 1957 letter to a friend who had recommended he read Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead, Hunter S. Thompson wrote, “Although I don’t feel that it’s at all necessary to tell you how I feel about the principle of individuality, I know that I’m going to have to spend the rest of my life expressing it one way or another, and I think that I’ll accomplish more by expressing it on the keys of a typewriter than by letting it express itself in sudden outbursts of frustrated violence. . . .”*
Hope you’re holding court in that better place,
cigarette and drink in hand, keyboard at the ready.
Sure do miss you, dude.
*Interview, Paris Review. Full interview HERE.