Quotes from Hunter S. Thompson

No, it was too much. The line between madness and masochism was already hazy; the time had come to pull back ... to retire, hunker down, back off and cop out, as it were. Why not? in every gig like this, there comes a time to either cut your losses or consolidate your winnings—whichever fits.

I was thinking; my mind was running at top speed, scanning and sorting my options. They ranged all the way from Dumb and Dangerous to Crazy, Evil, and utterly wrong from the start.

Don't say that," I snapped. "We are innocent men! We are working within the system . . . and besides, I think I have some good crank outside in the car.

They were professionally deviant, but they had a few things in common. They depended, mostly from habit, on newspapers and magazines for the bulk of their income; their lives were geared to long chances and sudden movement; and they claimed no allegiance to any flag and valued no currency but luck and good contacts.

We are going out again in search of the American dream.

What sells, today, is whatever Fucks You Up - whatever short-circuits your brain and grounds it out for the longest possible time.

There was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate or down 101 to Los Altos or La Honda.… You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning.…

You forget where you are," he said. "What right do you have to come here and cause trouble, and then tell us to speak your language?

I beat him like a mad dog with mange every time I got a chance, and I am proud of it. He was scum.

Maybe, God forbid, the place was what it appeared to be—a melange of Okies and thieves and bewildered jíbaros.

Well, he said. I hope to God I never make forty -- I wouldn't know what to do with myself.

Cases of champagne and scotch lay broken in the street, and everyone I saw had a bottle. They were screaming and dancing, and in the middle of the crowd a giant Swede wearing a blue jockstrap was blowing long blasts on a trumpet.

There was no moon, but I could hear the surf a few yards in front of us. I spread my filthy cord coat on the sand for a pillow, then fell down and went to sleep.

Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run … but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant. … History

The shittrain began on November 22nd, 1963, in Dallas - when some twisted little geek blew the President's off... and then a year later, LBJ was re-elected as the Peace Candidate. Johnson did a lot of rotten things in those five bloody years, but when the history books are written he will emerge in his proper role as the man who caused an entire generation of Americans to lose all respect for the Presidency, the White House, the Army, and in fact the who structure of government.

come away scratched or baffled. —A. J. Liebling

You have to be very mean to get a laugh on the campaign trail. There is no such thing as paranoia.

Superstar politicians and superstar quarterbacks have the same kind of delicate egos, and people who life on that level grow very accustomed to very thin, rarified air. They have trouble breathing in the lower altitudes; and if they can't breath right, they can't function.

It occurred to me one evening, as I sat by myself in Al's patio, that a man can live on his wits and his balls for only so long. I'd been doing it for ten years and I had a feeling that my reserve was running low.

Don't worry, boys, we'll weather this storm of approval and come out as hated as ever - Saul Alinsky to his staff shortly before his death, June 1972.

But instead of losing quietly, one by one, they have banded together with a mindless kind of loyalty and moved outside the framework, for good or ill. They may not have an answer, but at least they are still on their feet.

Yeah, I guess I am," said one. "But you're looking at one loser who's going to make a hell of a scene on the way out.

Sunday is not a good day for traveling in the South. Most public places are closed - especially the bars and taverns - in order that the denizens of this steamy, atavistic region will not be distracted from church. Sunday is the Lord's day, and in the South he still has clout - or enough, at least, so that most folks won't cross him in public. And those few who can't make it to church will likely stay home by the fan, with iced tea, and worship him in their own way

The dawn is killing me off, the fog is on the windows, the [ra]coons have robbed the cans, and down in Rio its 8 a.m. and the whores who missed last night are already out on the beach in their fine little bikinis and if I could get my hands on just one of them I would be God's happiest man. But that's not likely tonight, so I'll get some sleep and wake up tomorrow with a fix on the Hell's Angels. - to Angus Cameron in a letter dated 06/28/1965