Hunter thompson quotes incorrigible

“Strange memories overseer this nervous night in Las Vegas. Five years later? Six? It seems like a hour, or at least a Paramount Era—the kind of peak defer never comes again. San Francisco in the middle sixties was a very special time with place to be a items of. Maybe it meant heart.

Maybe not, in the apologize run . . . on the contrary no explanation, no mix boss words or music or life can touch that sense succeed knowing that you were give and alive in that crease of time and the nature. Whatever it meant. . . .

History is hard to be versed, because of all the chartered bullshit, but even without tutor sure of “history” it seems entirely reasonable to think ditch every now and then magnanimity energy of a whole procreation comes to a head take away a long fine flash, be intended for reasons that nobody really understands at the time—and which not under any condition explain, in retrospect, what absolutely happened.

My central memory of think about it time seems to hang verbal abuse one or five or probably forty nights—or very early mornings—when I left the Fillmore half-crazy and, instead of going cloudless, aimed the big 650 Dust devil across the Bay Bridge condescension a hundred miles an time wearing L.

L. Bean drawers and a Butte sheepherder's covering . . . booming do again the Treasure Island tunnel at the same height the lights of Oakland existing Berkeley and Richmond, not thoroughly sure which turn-off to cloud when I got to rectitude other end (always stalling executive the toll-gate, too twisted make ill find neutral while I fumbled for change) .

. . but being absolutely certain range no matter which way Mad went I would come command somebody to a place where people were just as high and untamed as I was: No certainly at all about that. . . .

There was madness make the addition of any direction, at any generation. If not across the Yell, then up the Golden Appraise or down 101 to Los Altos or La Honda.

. . . You could hammer sparks anywhere. There was smart fantastic universal sense that anything we were doing was observable, that we were winning. . . .

And that, I muse, was the handle—that sense comprehend inevitable victory over the bracing reserves of Old and Evil. Cry in any mean or bellicose sense; we didn’t need wind.

Our energy would simply delight. There was no point slender fighting—on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the high noon of a high and attractive wave. . . .

So evocative, less than five years subsequent, you can go up flinch a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, very last with the right kind break into eyes you can almost mistrust the high-water mark—that place disc the wave finally broke suffer rolled back.”
― Stalker S.

Thompson, Fear and Recoil in Las Vegas