It’s always cool when the lives of two of your favorite
writers somehow converge. Paul Theroux, whose travel books have long
been favorites of mine (I also LOVED Mosquito Coast), has got a
fond
reminiscence of another favorite writer of mine: Hunter Thompson. Calling Hunter a boistrous recluse, he also
credits Hunter (as so many have) with being a monumental literary presence:
He was a living reminder that satire at its best is a savage business. He was unsparing, self-punishing, in the
way he lived his life. His friends adored him. Such a brooding presence could not be the life of the party but he was
always its soul.
In style and substance, the two writers could not have been more different (though each possesses an acidic
cynicism). The two apparently hung out a bit in Hawaii, and one can only imagine (with a very big smile on one’s face)
what the conversations must have been like. Reading this semi-eulogy (or yougoogly, as Zoolander might have put it)
made me miss the dear Doctor even more.