Confessions of A Man on the Move

“We were somewhere around Barstow, at the edge of the desert...” These words ring out in my mind, captivating me, urging me to read on. If you know where this is from, well done; if not, it’s the first line of, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream, by the great doctor of journalism Hunter S. Thompson. I first read the Doc at a very, turbulent and critical time in my life, on a plane creeping towards Panama. Moving is difficult. Even though I had done it twice before, this time it was different, this time it was serious. All that I had come to know and love, was slowly, but definitely surely, getting taken away.


Maybe I give too much significance to reading Hunter S. on my first trip back to Panama since leaving in 2003 to live in Chile. Maybe if I would have read him at another point in my life it wouldn’t have seemed so great. I ended up reading the book in one day on the 6 hour plane ride from Chile. Up until that point I had never read anything like it; there was nothing I had seen or heard of in literature that could even compare to or prepare me for such a raw and unforgiving reading. No one had really put things in perspective like Hunter did. Although the book was published in 72, and would become the masterpiece of the love generation; it easily applies to today’s society which, apart from technologic advances, has not changed much.


Many view Hunter S. as a simple drug fiend, a social cripple, swine, to put it vulgarly. They’ll read his work and label him a degenerate. They read Fear and Loathing and find it difficult to see more than a drug fueled visit to Las Vegas. But what they fail to see is the underlying meaning of his trip, which was meant to be different. With his words, he puts the status quo on trial and mercilessly attacks it, demonstrating how ridiculous we actually are. Las Vegas is the whorehouse of America; a place where people go to get away with things that simply would not be had at home. He breaks every rule that we live by: heavy use of illegal substance, harassing the locals, public belligerence, the list goes on. But no one can stop him. The journey is a strange and terrible combination of humor and utter horror in one insane novel. I felt like he said a lot that needed to be said, or at least I needed to hear —or read—be said in the book. The book sort of reassured me that I didn’t need anyone’s approval, just my own.


Fear and Loathing was the spark and fuel of the fire it would set off in my head. I this astonishing feeling of accomplishment after finishing the novel, something I haven’t felt from any other written work. Reflecting on the novel now, my view has changed and become more sophisticated than it once was. I appreciate a lot more than the fact that Raoul Duke—Hunter Thompson—was a complete badass. I appreciate his freedom, which came at a serious cost. He really did whatever he damn well pleased and shoved it in the establishments in the face in the process; which did not come without serious repercussions. He may have been an absurd man, but all his criticisms and treatise don’t come un-sustained and lacking of sincerity. He once said, “The truth is a rare commodity among journalists,” which really sums up what much of his writing was all about: Gonzo Journalism.


If you haven’t read Hunter Thompson you won’t fully understand what I’m saying in this essay. Fear and Loathing was just the beginning. From there I was captivated by the writings and the man. He is a serious and lasting influence on me, and my train of thought. This work came to me a turning point in my life causing more change than I thought was actually happening at the time. The most serious influence that I can attribute to Hunter’s writings is not to gobble up everything that is fed to you. Always suspect, always question their motives. And now, writing this essay, reflecting on the book that is responsible for my love of the written word, I have yet another sense of accomplishment, sort of like how Raoul Duke felt at the end of the novel: “a man on the move, and just sick enough to be totally confident.”