maybe there is no heaven. or maybe this is all pure gibberish—a product of the demented imagination of a lazy drunken hillbilly with a heart full of hate who has found a way to live out where the real winds blow—to sleep late, have fun, get wild, drink whisky, and drive fast on empty streets with nothing in mind except falling in love and not getting arrested…res ipsa loquitur. let the good times roll.

hunter s. thompson.

i have spent half my life trying to get away from journalism…a low trade and a worse habit than heroin, a strange seedy world of misfits and drunkards and failures.

hunter s. thompson: generation of swine: tales of shame and degradation in the ‘80’s.

freedom is a challenge. you decide who you are by what you do. it’s like a question, like a fork in the road. an ongoing question you have to keep answering correctly. there’s a touch of the high wire to it. i’ve never been able to walk high wires, but I get the feeling.

hunter s. thompson

if i’d written all the truth i knew for the past ten years, about 600 people – including me – would be rotting in prison cells from rio to seattle today. absolute truth is a very rare and dangerous commodity in the context of professional journalism.

hunter s. thompson