Read 9 Free Articles by Hunter S. Thompson That Span His Gonzo Journalist Career (1965–2005)

Image  via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

Most read­ers know Hunter S. Thomp­son for his 1971 book Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Sav­age Jour­ney to the Heart of the Amer­i­can Dream. But in over 45 years of writ­ing, this pro­lif­ic observ­er of the Amer­i­can scene wrote volu­mi­nous­ly, often hilar­i­ous­ly, and usu­al­ly with decep­tive­ly clear-eyed vit­ri­ol on sports, pol­i­tics, media, and oth­er vicious­ly addic­tive pur­suits. (“I hate to advo­cate drugs, alco­hol, vio­lence, or insan­i­ty to any­one,” he famous­ly said, “but they’ve always worked for me.”) His dis­tinc­tive style, often imi­tat­ed but nev­er repli­cat­ed, all but forced the coin­ing of the term “gonzo” jour­nal­ism. But what could define it? One clue comes in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas itself, when Thomp­son reflects on his expe­ri­ence in the city, osten­si­bly as a reporter: “What was the sto­ry? Nobody had both­ered to say. So we would have to drum it up on our own. Free Enter­prise. The Amer­i­can Dream. Hor­a­tio Alger gone mad on drugs in Las Vegas. Do it now: pure Gonzo jour­nal­ism.”

You’ll find out more in the Paris Review’s inter­view with Thomp­son, in which he recounts once feel­ing that “jour­nal­ism was just a tick­et to ride out, that I was basi­cal­ly meant for high­er things. Nov­els.” Sit­ting down to begin his prop­er lit­er­ary career, Thomp­son took a quick job writ­ing up the Hel­l’s Angels, which let him get over “the idea that jour­nal­ism was a low­er call­ing. Jour­nal­ism is fun because it offers imme­di­ate work. You get hired and at least you can cov­er the f&cking City Hall. It’s excit­ing.” And then came the real epiphany, after he went to cov­er the Ken­tucky Der­by for Scan­lan’s: “Most depress­ing days of my life. I’d lie in my tub at the Roy­al­ton. I thought I had failed com­plete­ly as a jour­nal­ist. Final­ly, in des­per­a­tion and embar­rass­ment, I began to rip the pages out of my note­book and give them to a copy­boy to take to a fax machine down the street. When I left I was a bro­ken man, failed total­ly, and con­vinced I’d be exposed when the stuff came out.”

Indeed, the expo­sure came, but not in the way he expect­ed. Below, we’ve col­lect­ed ten of Thomp­son’s arti­cles freely avail­able online, from those ear­ly pieces on the Hel­l’s Angels and the Ken­tucky Der­by to oth­ers on the 1972 Pres­i­den­tial race, the Hon­olu­lu Marathon, Richard Nixon, and wee-hour con­ver­sa­tions with Bill Mur­ray. But don’t take these sub­jects too lit­er­al­ly; Thomp­son always had a way of find­ing some­thing even more inter­est­ing in exact­ly the oppo­site direc­tion from what­ev­er he’d ini­tial­ly meant to write about. And that, per­haps, reveals more about the gonzo method than any­thing else.

The Motor­cy­cle Gangs: Losers and Out­siders” (The Nation, 1965) The arti­cle that would become the basis for Thomp­son’s first book, Hel­l’s Angels: The Strange and Ter­ri­ble Saga of the Out­law Motor­cy­cle Gangs. “When you get in an argu­ment with a group of out­law motor­cy­clists, you can gen­er­al­ly count your chances of emerg­ing unmaimed by the num­ber of heavy-hand­ed allies you can muster in the time it takes to smash a beer bot­tle. In this league, sports­man­ship is for old lib­er­als and young fools.”

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (Rolling Stone, 1971) The Gonzo jour­nal­ism clas­sic first appeared as a two-part series in Rolling Stone mag­a­zine in Novem­ber 1971, com­plete with illus­tra­tions from Ralph Stead­man, before being pub­lished as a book in 1972.  Rolling Stone has post­ed the orig­i­nal ver­sion on its web site.

Fear and Loathing on the Cam­paign Trail in ’72″ (Rolling Stone, 1973) Excerpts from Thomp­son’s book of near­ly the same name, an exam­i­na­tion of Demo­c­ra­t­ic Par­ty can­di­date George McGov­ern’s unsuc­cess­ful bid for the Pres­i­den­cy that McGov­ern’s cam­paign man­ag­er Frank Mankiewicz called “the least fac­tu­al, most accu­rate account” in print. “My own the­o­ry, which sounds like mad­ness, is that McGov­ern would have been bet­ter off run­ning against Nixon with the same kind of neo-‘radical’ cam­paign he ran in the pri­maries. Not rad­i­cal in the left/right sense, but rad­i­cal in a sense that he was com­ing on with a new… a dif­fer­ent type of politi­cian… a per­son who actu­al­ly would grab the sys­tem by the ears and shake it.”

The Curse of Lono” (Play­boy, 1983) Thomp­son and Stead­man’s assign­ment from Run­ning mag­a­zine to cov­er the Hon­ololu marathon turns into a char­ac­ter­is­ti­cal­ly “ter­ri­ble mis­ad­ven­ture,” this one even involv­ing the old Hawai­ian gods. “It was not easy for me, either, to accept the fact that I was born 1700 years ago in an ocean-going canoe some­where off the Kona Coast of Hawaii, a prince of roy­al Poly­ne­sian blood, and lived my first life as King Lono, ruler of all the islands, god of excess, unde­feat­ed box­er. How’s that for roots?”

He Was a Crook” (Rolling Stone, 1994) Thomp­son’s obit­u­ary of, and per­son­al his­to­ry of his hatred for, Pres­i­dent Richard M. Nixon. “Some peo­ple will say that words like scum and rot­ten are wrong for Objec­tive Jour­nal­ism — which is true, but they miss the point. It was the built-in blind spots of the Objec­tive rules and dog­ma that allowed Nixon to slith­er into the White House in the first place.

Doomed Love at the Taco Stand” (Time, 2001) Thomp­son’s adven­tures in Cal­i­for­nia, to which he has returned for the pro­duc­tion of Ter­ry Gilliam’s film adap­ta­tion of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas star­ring John­ny Depp. “I had to set­tle for half of Dep­p’s trail­er, along with his C4 Porsche and his wig, so I could look more like myself when I drove around Bev­er­ly Hills and stared at peo­ple when we rolled to a halt at stop­lights on Rodeo Dri­ve.”

Fear & Loathing in Amer­i­ca” (ESPN.com, 2001) In the imme­di­ate after­math of 9/11, Thomp­son looks out onto the grim and para­noid future he sees ahead. “This is going to be a very expen­sive war, and Vic­to­ry is not guar­an­teed — for any­one, and cer­tain­ly not for any­one as baf­fled as George W. Bush.”

“Pris­on­er of Den­ver” (Van­i­ty Fair, 2004) A chron­i­cle of Thomp­son’s (posthu­mous­ly suc­cess­ful) involve­ment in the case of Lisl Auman, a young woman he believed wrong­ful­ly impris­oned for the mur­der of a police offi­cer. “ ‘We’ is the most pow­er­ful word in pol­i­tics. Today it’s Lisl Auman, but tomor­row it could be you, me, us.”

Shot­gun Golf with Bill Mur­ray” (ESPN.com, 2005) Thomp­son’s final piece of writ­ing, in which he runs an idea for a new sport —com­bin­ing golf, Japan­ese mul­ti­sto­ry dri­ving ranges, and the dis­charg­ing of shot­guns — by the com­e­dy leg­end at 3:30 in the morn­ing. “It was Bill Mur­ray who taught me how to mor­ti­fy your oppo­nents in any sport­ing con­test, hon­est or oth­er­wise. He taught me my humil­i­at­ing PGA fade­away shot, which has earned me a lot of mon­ey… after that, I taught him how to swim, and then I intro­duced him to the shoot­ing arts, and now he wins every­thing he touch­es.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hunter S. Thompson’s Har­row­ing, Chem­i­cal-Filled Dai­ly Rou­tine

Hunter S. Thomp­son Calls Tech Sup­port, Unleash­es a Tirade Full of Fear and Loathing (NSFW)

John­ny Depp Reads Let­ters from Hunter S. Thomp­son (NSFW)

Hunter S. Thomp­son Remem­bers Jim­my Carter’s Cap­ti­vat­ing Bob Dylan Speech (1974)

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on cities, Asia, film, lit­er­a­ture, and aes­thet­ics. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on his brand new Face­book page.

Toni Morrisson: Forget Writing About What You Know; Write About What You Don’t Know

On Decem­ber 12th, the New York Pub­lic Library host­ed a live pro­gram fea­tur­ing Pulitzer Prize-win­ning author Junot Díaz in con­ver­sa­tion with the writer who most deeply influ­enced his career, Toni Mor­ri­son, win­ner of the 1993 Nobel Prize in Lit­er­a­ture. The talk was orig­i­nal­ly streamed live on the web (includ­ing our site), and now you can watch a record­ed ver­sion below, plus some high­lights above. Intro­duc­tions by Paul Hold­en­gräber and friends begin at the 40:09 mark, and every­thing gets real­ly going at the 49:35 time­stamp in the video below. Despite some nerves, Díaz engages his now 82 year-old lit­er­ary idol in a con­ver­sa­tion that’s engag­ing, col­or­ful, some­times even amus­ing­ly off-col­or — like when he tells Mor­ri­son “you can out­write every motherf#cker on the plan­et sen­tence for sen­tence.” The inter­view touch­es on her for­ma­tive years as a writer and edi­tor, and then her years writ­ing her mas­ter­ful nov­els — Song of Solomon, Beloved and the rest. Com­men­tary on the craft of writ­ing is sprin­kled through­out. If you’d like to get Mor­rison’s writ­ing advice in a neat­ly-pack­aged for­mat, please see our pre­vi­ous posts: Toni Mor­ri­son Dis­pens­es Writ­ing Wis­dom in 1993 Paris Review Inter­view and Toni Mor­ri­son, Nora Ephron, and Dozens More Offer Advice in Free Cre­ative Writ­ing “Mas­ter Class”.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Writ­ing Tips by Hen­ry Miller, Elmore Leonard, Mar­garet Atwood, Neil Gaiman & George Orwell

Ray Brad­bury Gives 12 Pieces of Writ­ing Advice to Young Authors (2001)

Sev­en Tips From F. Scott Fitzger­ald on How to Write Fic­tion

Alice Munro Talks About the Writing Life in Her Nobel Prize Interview

On Octo­ber 10th, Cana­di­an writer Alice Munro won the Nobel Prize in Lit­er­a­ture. And if you’re not famil­iar with her work, we sug­gest that you spend time read­ing the 18 Free Short Sto­ries we gath­ered in our cel­e­bra­to­ry post.

Tra­di­tion­al­ly, recip­i­ents of the Nobel Prize trav­el to Swe­den to accept the award in mid Decem­ber. But the 82-year-old writer, cit­ing poor health, decid­ed to stay home and forego mak­ing the cus­tom­ary accep­tance speech in Stock­holm. (See past speech­es by Hem­ing­way, Faulkn­er, Stein­beck, V.S. Naipaul and oth­ers here.) Fans of Munro weren’t left emp­ty-hand­ed, how­ev­er. From the com­fort of her daughter’s home in Vic­to­ria, British Colum­bia, Munro sat down for an infor­mal, 30-minute inter­view and talked about many things: how she first began writ­ing and telling sto­ries; how she gained (and lost) con­fi­dence as a writer; how she men­tal­ly maps out her sto­ries; how she has become a dif­fer­ent writer with age; how the writ­ing life for women has changed over the years; and much more. You can watch the com­plete Nobel inter­view above.

via Page-Turn­er

Relat­ed Con­tent:

On His 100th Birth­day, Hear Albert Camus Deliv­er His Nobel Prize Accep­tance Speech (1957)

7 Nobel Speech­es by 7 Great Writ­ers: Hem­ing­way, Faulkn­er, and More

Read 18 Short Sto­ries From Nobel Prize-Win­ning Writer Alice Munro Free Online

Where Do Great Ideas Come From? Neil Gaiman Explains

neil gaiman

Image via Flickr Com­mons

Every cre­ative writer gets asked the ques­tion at least once at a social event with non-writ­ers: “Where do you get your ideas?” To the asker, writ­ing is a dark art, full of mys­ter­ies only the ini­ti­at­ed under­stand. To the writer—as Neil Gaiman tells us in an essay on his web­site—the ques­tion miss­es the point and mis­judges the writer’s task. “Ideas aren’t the hard bit,” he says.

Cre­at­ing believ­able peo­ple who do more or less what you tell them to is much hard­er. And hard­est by far is the process of sim­ply sit­ting down and putting one word after anoth­er to con­struct what­ev­er it is you’re try­ing to build: mak­ing it inter­est­ing, mak­ing it new.

Some­times hard­est of all is the “sim­ply sit­ting down” and writ­ing when there’s noth­ing, no ideas. The work’s still got to get done, after all. Gaiman used to treat the ques­tion face­tious­ly, answer­ing with one of a few wag­gish and “not very fun­ny” pre­pared answers. But peo­ple kept ask­ing, includ­ing the sev­en-year-old class­mates of his daugh­ter, and he decid­ed to tell them the truth, “I make them up, out of my head.” It’s not the answer most want­ed to hear, but it’s the truth. As he inar­guably shows, ideas are like opin­ions: “Everyone’s got an idea for a book, a movie, a sto­ry, a TV series.” And they can come from any­where.

Gaiman, feel­ing that he owed his daughter’s class­mates a thought­ful, detailed answer, respond­ed with the below, which we’ve put into list form.

  • Ideas come from day­dream­ing. “The only dif­fer­ence between writ­ers and oth­er peo­ple,” says Gaiman, “is that we notice when we’re doing it.”
  • Ideas come from ask­ing your­self sim­ple ques­tions, like “What if…?” (“you woke up with wings?… your sis­ter turned into a mouse?.…), “If only…” (“a ghost would do my home­work”) and “I won­der….” (“what she does when she’s alone”), etc…. These ques­tions, in turn, gen­er­ate oth­er ques­tions.
  • Ideas are only start­ing points. You don’t have to fig­ure out the plot. Plots “gen­er­ate them­selves” from “what­ev­er the start­ing point is.”
  • Ideas can be peo­ple (“There’s a boy who wants to know about mag­ic”); places (“There’s a cas­tle at the end of time, which is the only place there is”); images (“A woman, sift­ing in a dark room filled with emp­ty faces.”)
  • Ideas can come from two things “that haven’t come togeth­er before.” (“What would hap­pen if a chair was bit­ten by a were­wolf?)

Grant­ed some of Gaiman’s exam­ples may be more intrigu­ing or fan­tas­tic than what you or I might pro­pose, but any­one can do these exer­cis­es. The idea, how­ev­er, is just the start­ing point. “All fic­tion,” he writes, “is a process of imag­in­ing.” So what comes next? “Well,” says Gaiman, “then you write.” Yes, it is that sim­ple, and that hard.

Tell us, read­ers, do you find any of Gaiman’s idea sources help­ful? Where do you get your ideas?

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Rod Ser­ling: Where Do Ideas Come From?

Neil Gaiman Gives Grad­u­ates 10 Essen­tial Tips for Work­ing in the Arts

Writ­ing Tips by Hen­ry Miller, Elmore Leonard, Mar­garet Atwood, Neil Gaiman & George Orwell

Read Neil Gaiman’s Free Short Sto­ries Online

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

George Saunders’ Lectures on the Russian Greats Brought to Life in Student Sketches

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Click for larg­er image

We’ve seen plen­ty of post-mod­ern decay in writ­ers before George Saun­ders—in Don DeLil­lo, J.G. Ballard—but nev­er has it been filled with such puck­ish warmth, such whim­si­cal detail, and such empa­thy, to use a word Saun­ders prizes. As a writer, Saun­ders draws read­ers in close to a very human world, albeit a frag­ment­ed, burned out, and frayed one, and it seems that he does so as a teacher as well. Since 1997, Saun­ders has taught cre­ative writ­ing at Syra­cuse Uni­ver­si­ty, where he received his M.A. in 1988, and where he remains, despite being award­ed a MacArthur “Genius” Fel­low­ship in 2006 and pub­lish­ing steadi­ly through­out the last decade and a half. To sit in a class with Saun­ders, accord­ing to his one­time stu­dent Rebec­ca Fishow, is to vis­it with a dar­ing prac­ti­tion­er of the short form, one whose “words seem a lot like the trans­fer of secrets through a chain-link of writ­ers.”

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While attend­ing one of Saun­ders’ semes­ter-length writ­ing sem­i­nars, writer and artist Fishow com­piled the notes and sketch­es you see here (and sev­er­al more at The Believ­er’s Log­ger site). In each sketch, Saun­ders teach­es from one of his favorite clas­sic Russ­ian short sto­ry writ­ers. At the top, see him expound on Turgenev’s method, prof­fer­ing epipha­nies, keen obser­va­tions on craft, and writer­ly advice in word bubbles—“You are allowed to manip­u­late,” “Tec­ni­cian vs. Artist” [sic], “Instan­ta­neous micro-re-eval­u­a­tion (@end of story)”—while sur­round­ed by a fringy aura. Above, Fishow recon­structs Saun­ders’ take on Chekhov’s “Lady with the Pet Dog” around a por­trait of a pen­sive Saun­ders (look­ing a bit like Chekhov).

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Fishow’s recon­struc­tions are obvi­ous­ly very par­tial, and it’s not clear if she took them down on the spot or scrib­bled from mem­o­ry (the mis­spellings make me think the for­mer). In the sketch above, Saun­ders’ expli­cates Gogol, with phras­es like “VERBAL JOY!” and an Ein­stein quote: “No wor­thy prob­lem is ever solved on the plane of its orig­i­nal con­cep­tion.” The lat­ter is an inter­est­ing moment of Saun­ders’ sci­en­tif­ic back­ground slip­ping into his ped­a­gogy. Before he was a MacAu­rthur win­ner and an enthu­si­as­tic teacher, Saun­ders worked as an envi­ron­men­tal engi­neer. Of his sci­ence back­ground, he has said:

…any claim I might make to orig­i­nal­i­ty in my fic­tion is real­ly just the result of this odd back­ground: basi­cal­ly, just me work­ing inef­fi­cient­ly, with flawed tools, in a mode I don’t have suf­fi­cient back­ground to real­ly under­stand. Like if you put a welder to design­ing dress­es.

As a teacher, at least in Fishow’s notes, Saun­ders cel­e­brates “work­ing inef­fi­cient­ly.” As she puts it: “His wis­dom con­firms that flaw and uncer­tain­ty and vari­ety and empa­thy (espe­cial­ly empa­thy) are pos­i­tive aspects of the writ­ing process.” Fishow’s por­traits go a long way toward con­vey­ing those qual­i­ties in Saun­ders as a pres­ence in the class­room.

Find more sketch­es at The Believ­er’s Log­ger site.

Also Read 10 Free Sto­ries by George Saun­ders Online.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

George Saun­ders Extols the Virtues of Kind­ness in 2013 Speech to Syra­cuse Uni­ver­si­ty Grads

Vladimir Nabokov (Chan­nelled by Christo­pher Plum­mer) Teach­es Kaf­ka at Cor­nell

James Joyce, With His Eye­sight Fail­ing, Draws a Sketch of Leopold Bloom (1926)

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

Gay Talese Outlines His Famous 1966 Profile “Frank Sinatra Has a Cold” on a Shirt Board

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Click image once to enlarge, and yet again to enlarge fur­ther.

The assign­ment was impos­si­ble: a sub­ject that refused to be inter­viewed, research that took over three months, and expens­es that reached near­ly $5,000 (in mid 1960s mon­ey). The result: one of the great­est celebri­ty pro­files ever writ­ten.

Recent­ly hired by Esquire after spend­ing the first ten years of his career at The New York Times, Gay Talese’s first assign­ment from edi­tor Harold Hayes was to write a pro­file of the already icon­ic Frank Sina­tra.

Accord­ing to Esquire:

The leg­endary singer was approach­ing fifty, under the weath­er, out of sorts, and unwill­ing to be inter­viewed. So Talese remained in L.A., hop­ing Sina­tra might recov­er and recon­sid­er, and he began talk­ing to many of the peo­ple around Sina­tra — his friends, his asso­ciates, his fam­i­ly, his count­less hang­ers-on — and observ­ing the man him­self wher­ev­er he could.

In an inter­view last month with Nie­man Sto­ry­board, Talese explained that he didn’t want to write the sto­ry in the first place. “Life mag­a­zine just did a piece on Sina­tra,” he recalls. “What can you say about Sina­tra that hasn’t already been said?” How­ev­er, for a writer who has writ­ten many bril­liant pieces, the result­ing pro­file, “Frank Sina­tra Has a Cold,” is his most indeli­ble.

Above is Talese’s out­line for the pro­file. Instead of note­books, Talese used shirt boards to write down his obser­va­tions. As he told The Paris Review in 2009, “I cut the shirt board into four parts and I cut the cor­ners into round edges, so that they [could] fit in my pock­et. I also use full shirt boards when I’m writ­ing my out­lines.”

What is also vital to Talese’s process is his per­son­al obser­va­tion. If you read Talese’s out­line (click on the image above to enlarge), you will uncov­er more of what Talese thought and felt dur­ing that day than facts about Sina­tra. “What I’m doing as a research­ing writer is always mixed up with what I’m feel­ing while doing it,” Talese notes, “and I keep a record of this. I’m always part of the assign­ment.”

This style goes to the heart of what became known as New Jour­nal­ism, which, among oth­er things, estab­lished the right for a writer to use his or her imag­i­na­tion to make a scene come alive. While the style was adopt­ed by Talese, along with Tom Wolfe, Joan Did­ion, and oth­ers, it was first born out of neces­si­ty to com­plete the Sina­tra pro­file. “The cre­ativ­i­ty in jour­nal­ism is in what you do with what you have,” Talese says.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Gay Talese: Drink­ing at New York Times Put Mad Men to Shame

The Ten Best Amer­i­can Essays Since 1950, Accord­ing to Robert Atwan

Watch Frank Sina­tra Play “Snarling Mad Dog Killer” in 1954 Noir Sud­den­ly

Prickly Ernest Hemingway Returns Letter to Critic: “Wipe Your Royal Irish Ass On It. You Are Stupid” (1931)

Despite being the paragon of imper­turbable mas­culin­i­ty of his time, Ernest Hem­ing­way had a high­ly sen­si­tive artis­tic tem­pera­ment. Nowhere did he exhib­it this more than when dis­cussing his writ­ing. Papa did not suf­fer fools glad­ly, and lit­er­ary crit­ics tend­ed to fare even worse. After Max East­man dared to write, “Come out from behind that false hair on your chest, Ernest. We all know you,” Hem­ing­way was report­ed to have slapped him with a book. When Orson Welles—a cin­e­mat­ic fire­brand in his own right—decid­ed to chide Hem­ing­way about his script, the author took a swing.

In this YouTube clip, the crit­ic seems to have got­ten away with mere­ly a ver­bal wal­lop. Although there is no video, the audio is clear, and we hear Hemingway’s mea­sured bari­tone read­ing, then com­ment­ing on, an Irish critic’s review that he had received in 1931:

‘Your book lies upon my table. I have fin­ished read­ing it, and I eye it dubi­ous­ly.’ You’ve got a nice eye, boy!

‘The pages are cut rather uneven­ly.’ Nice work, you’re in there.

‘The stiff cov­ers and the bind­ing are nor­mal, I think.’ Who are you, kid?

‘The sig­na­ture on the cov­er is stamped in gold, or what looks like gold. There is noth­ing print­ed on the back side of the jack­et.’ Your own back­side.

The review­er, one Wal­ter H. McK­ay, fails to probe beyond the book’s bind­ing, and Hem­ing­way, in his typ­i­cal style, terse­ly rips him a new one (bonus points if you noticed Hem’s Joycean turn of phrase).

Ilia Blin­d­er­man is a Mon­tre­al-based cul­ture writer. Fol­low him at @iliablinderman

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Hem­ing­way to Fitzger­ald: “Kiss My Ass”

Ernest Hem­ing­way Cre­ates a Read­ing List for a Young Writer, 1934

Ernest Hemingway’s Favorite Ham­burg­er Recipe

How Philip K. Dick Disdained American Anti-Intellectualism and Found His Inspiration in Flaubert, Stendhal & Balzac

Despite some of the stranger cir­cum­stances of Philip K. Dick’s life, his rep­u­ta­tion as a para­noid guru is far bet­ter deserved by oth­er sci­ence fic­tion writ­ers who lost touch with real­i­ty. Dick was a seri­ous thinker and writer before pop cul­ture made him a prophet. Jonathan Letham wrote of him, “Dick wasn’t a leg­end and he wasn’t mad. He lived among us and was a genius.” It’s a fash­ion­able opin­ion these days, but his genius went most­ly unrec­og­nized in his lifetime—at least in his home country—except among a sub­set of sci-fi read­ers. But Dick con­sid­ered him­self a lit­er­ary writer. He left the Uni­ver­si­ty of Cal­i­for­nia after less than a semes­ter, but the “con­sum­mate auto­di­dact” read wide­ly and deeply, favor­ing the giants of Euro­pean phi­los­o­phy, the­ol­o­gy, and lit­er­a­ture. For this rea­son, Dick sus­pect­ed that his tepid recep­tion in the U.S., by com­par­i­son with the warm regard of the French, showed a “flawed” anti-intel­lec­tu­al­ism in Amer­i­cans that pre­vent­ed them from appre­ci­at­ing his work. In the 1977 edit­ed inter­view above with Dick in France, you can hear him lay out his the­o­ry in detail, offer­ing insights along the way into his lit­er­ary edu­ca­tion and influ­ences.

Dick iden­ti­fies two strains of anti-intel­lec­tu­al­ism in the U.S. The first, he says, pre­vents Amer­i­can read­ers from appre­ci­at­ing “nov­els of ideas.” Sci­ence fic­tion, he says, “is essen­tial­ly the field of ideas. And the anti-intel­lec­tu­al­ism of Amer­i­cans pro­hibits their inter­est in imag­i­na­tive ideas and inter­est­ing con­cepts.”

I don’t find Dick par­tic­u­lar­ly per­sua­sive here, but I live in a time when he has been ful­ly embraced, if only in adap­ta­tion. Dick’s more spe­cif­ic take on what may be a root cause for Amer­i­cans’ lack of curios­i­ty has to do with the read­ing habits of Amer­i­cans.

There’s anoth­er facet as regards my par­tic­u­lar work say com­pared to oth­er sci­ence fic­tion writ­ers. I grew up in Berke­ley and my edu­ca­tion was not lim­it­ed at all to read­ing oth­er sci­ence fic­tion nov­els pre­ced­ing my own, such as van Vogt, or Hein­lein, or peo­ple of that kind… Pad­gett, and so on…. Brad­bury. What I read, because it’s a uni­ver­si­ty city,  was Flaubert, Stend­hal, Balzac… Proust, and the Russ­ian nov­el­ists influ­enced by the French. Tur­genev. And I even read Japan­ese nov­els, mod­ern Japan­ese nov­els, nov­el­ists who were influ­enced by the French real­is­tic writ­ers.

Dick says his “slice of life” nov­els were well received in France because he based them on 19th French real­ist nov­els. His favorite, he tells the inter­view­er, were Madame Bovary and The Red and the Black, as well as Turgenev’s Fathers and Sons — all found in our col­lec­tion of Free eBooks and Free Audio BooksPer­haps a lit­tle self-impor­tant­ly, in his par­tic­u­lar con­cep­tion of him­self as a lit­er­ary writer, Dick dis­tances him­self from oth­er Amer­i­can sci­ence fic­tion authors, whom he alleges share the Amer­i­can reader’s anti-intel­lec­tu­al propen­si­ties. “I think this applies to me more than oth­er Amer­i­can sci­ence fic­tion writ­ers,” says Dick, “In fact, I think that it’s a great flaw in Amer­i­can sci­ence fic­tion writ­ers, and their read­ers, that they are insu­lat­ed from the great lit­er­a­ture of the world.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Robert Crumb Illus­trates Philip K. Dick’s Infa­mous, Hal­lu­ci­na­to­ry Meet­ing with God (1974)

The Penul­ti­mate Truth About Philip K. Dick: Doc­u­men­tary Explores the Mys­te­ri­ous Uni­verse of PKD

Free Philip K. Dick: Down­load 13 Great Sci­ence Fic­tion Sto­ries

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

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