Writer wanted
I have no intention of turning this blog into an obituary column. There are still a few people out there for whom I have the utmost respect -- they are getting fewer and fewer though -- and I can barely resist the urge to advice them to undergo a complete medical checkup and please folks, resist the urge to swallow the barrel of a gun and aim at the bats. I mean, shit, this is totally selfish of me but I need to know that some of the people I admire are still alive. The way it actually felt good to know that somewhere in Colorado there was a crazy bastard eating acid while shooting guns and writing articles. It's true that his late writings had lost part of its panache -- or maybe it's just me, Thompson never became a mere parody of his former self, but I have to admit I was always afraid it might happen because, well, these things happen, right? -- but he was still the Good Doctor, the crook always ready to inject you with a speedball of sheer craziness and paranoia.
My first reaction was not to believe it. Hunter shooting himself? No fucking way. Not when you have tried acid and you know how strong your mind has to be to endure the tremendous stimulation and not let your brains explode. Not when you know that this guy was the kind to fight any cause he deemed right with the endless energy of a mad dog.
But then, I came to admit that Thompson probably did not kill himself in an act of despair. That his suicide was the logical continuation of the way he had always lived, playing by his own rules only.
And I am not theorizing about suicide here, talking from a safe place and encouraging people to do it. I have saved a few friends from committing suicides so I know what I'm talking about. A close friend of mine willingly drove her car off the road just at the end of the last party I had when I left France. I spent most of my last weekend in France in the ER.
All I'm saying is that Hunter S. Thompson's suicide -- tragic and devastating as it is for his family, friends and readers -- makes sense. The way Hemingway's does to.
Not less tragic is that with Thompson's death, we are really turning a page of American literature. Since the news of his death, I've been racking my brains, trying to think of someone I might have forgotten when I say that the times of writers with balls is over. I'm talking about authors clearly having hints of genius in their LIVES and not only in their writings. Writers who would put themselves in dangerous (mental or physical) situations and then come back and write about it. Where are the William S. Burroughs, the Lord Byrons, the Thompsons of our times? Writers about which you can't figure out which one of their lives or their writings are the most exciting. (And if you reply Paris Hilton to this question then we really do have to define such words as "writing" and "exciting.")
If you can think of anybody, please by all means let me know. Maybe I forgot someone. Maybe I don't know him/her yet.
Houellebecq is definitely not my man. I thought for a time Maurice G. Dantec, now exiled in Canada, might be. But the more he goes the less he qualifies. Despite his impressive culture this guy is just sinking deeper and deeper in the stupid dialectic of religions. Remember what I was saying here? Well, Dantec is a good example of that -- another acid head who met fucking Jeeeesus. Chloe Delaume is quite interesting and I like her but even if her aspirations are pure, her writing sometimes leaves me cold. I wish she would theorize less and write more.
And that's about it for the French. Please, don't mention Houellebecq. Now if we turn towards the U.S., well... Palahniuk is an interesting guy as far as balls are concerned in writing, but even though I can tell he really is a great down to earth no-star-ego guy, his genius is more in his writing than in his life. Who else? Stephen Elliott maybe...
But you know, mentioning about Elliott made me realize something about Delaume and others. Burroughs and Thompson really grabbed the bull by the horn, whereas today's writers with interesting lives appear to me more like being the victims of their lives.
Is Salinger still hiding his ass somewhere? Is he dead already? I think he's still alive but I'd need to check that. Come on, there must be one crazy bastard somewhere still alive, writing.
Maybe in a jail, maybe in exile.
Just let me know.
My first reaction was not to believe it. Hunter shooting himself? No fucking way. Not when you have tried acid and you know how strong your mind has to be to endure the tremendous stimulation and not let your brains explode. Not when you know that this guy was the kind to fight any cause he deemed right with the endless energy of a mad dog.
But then, I came to admit that Thompson probably did not kill himself in an act of despair. That his suicide was the logical continuation of the way he had always lived, playing by his own rules only.
And I am not theorizing about suicide here, talking from a safe place and encouraging people to do it. I have saved a few friends from committing suicides so I know what I'm talking about. A close friend of mine willingly drove her car off the road just at the end of the last party I had when I left France. I spent most of my last weekend in France in the ER.
All I'm saying is that Hunter S. Thompson's suicide -- tragic and devastating as it is for his family, friends and readers -- makes sense. The way Hemingway's does to.
Not less tragic is that with Thompson's death, we are really turning a page of American literature. Since the news of his death, I've been racking my brains, trying to think of someone I might have forgotten when I say that the times of writers with balls is over. I'm talking about authors clearly having hints of genius in their LIVES and not only in their writings. Writers who would put themselves in dangerous (mental or physical) situations and then come back and write about it. Where are the William S. Burroughs, the Lord Byrons, the Thompsons of our times? Writers about which you can't figure out which one of their lives or their writings are the most exciting. (And if you reply Paris Hilton to this question then we really do have to define such words as "writing" and "exciting.")
If you can think of anybody, please by all means let me know. Maybe I forgot someone. Maybe I don't know him/her yet.
Houellebecq is definitely not my man. I thought for a time Maurice G. Dantec, now exiled in Canada, might be. But the more he goes the less he qualifies. Despite his impressive culture this guy is just sinking deeper and deeper in the stupid dialectic of religions. Remember what I was saying here? Well, Dantec is a good example of that -- another acid head who met fucking Jeeeesus. Chloe Delaume is quite interesting and I like her but even if her aspirations are pure, her writing sometimes leaves me cold. I wish she would theorize less and write more.
And that's about it for the French. Please, don't mention Houellebecq. Now if we turn towards the U.S., well... Palahniuk is an interesting guy as far as balls are concerned in writing, but even though I can tell he really is a great down to earth no-star-ego guy, his genius is more in his writing than in his life. Who else? Stephen Elliott maybe...
But you know, mentioning about Elliott made me realize something about Delaume and others. Burroughs and Thompson really grabbed the bull by the horn, whereas today's writers with interesting lives appear to me more like being the victims of their lives.
Is Salinger still hiding his ass somewhere? Is he dead already? I think he's still alive but I'd need to check that. Come on, there must be one crazy bastard somewhere still alive, writing.
Maybe in a jail, maybe in exile.
Just let me know.
posted by Cecyl at 10:44 PM
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