In April of 1958, Hunter S. Thompson was 22 years old when he wrote this letter to his friend Hume Logan in response to a request for life advice.
Thompson’s letter, found in Letters of Note, offers some of the most thoughtful and profound advice I’ve ever come across.
April 22, 195857 Perry StreetNew York City
You ask advice: ah, what a very human and very dangerous thing to do! For to give advice to a man who asks what to do with his life implies something very close to egomania. To presume to point a man to the right and ultimate goal— to point with a trembling finger in the RIGHT direction is something only a fool would take upon himself.
I am not a fool, but I respect your sincerity in asking my advice. I ask you though, in listening to what I say, to remember that all advice can only be a product of the man who gives it. What is truth to one may be disaster to another. I do not see life through your eyes, nor you through mine. If I were to attempt to give you specific advice, it would be too much like the blind leading the blind.
“To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles … ” (Shakespeare)
And indeed, that IS the question: whether to float with the tide, or to swim for a goal. It is a choice we must all make consciously or unconsciously at one time in our lives. So few people understand this! Think of any decision you’ve ever made which had a bearing on your future: I may be wrong, but I don’t see how it could have been anything but a choice however indirect— between the two things I’ve mentioned: the floating or the swimming.
But why not float if you have no goal? That is another question. It is unquestionably better to enjoy the floating than to swim in uncertainty. So how does a man find a goal? Not a castle in the stars, but a real and tangible thing. How can a man be sure he’s not after the “big rock candy mountain,” the enticing sugar-candy goal that has little taste and no substance?
The answer— and, in a sense, the tragedy of life— is that we seek to understand the goal and not the man. We set up a goal which demands of us certain things: and we do these things. We adjust to the demands of a concept which CANNOT be valid. When you were young, let us say that you wanted to be a fireman. I feel reasonably safe in saying that you no longer want to be a fireman. Why? Because your perspective has changed. It’s not the fireman who has changed, but you. Every man is the sum total of his reactions to experience. As your experiences differ and multiply, you become a different man, and hence your perspective changes. This goes on and on. Every reaction is a learning process; every significant experience alters your perspective.
So it would seem foolish, would it not, to adjust our lives to the demands of a goal we see from a different angle every day? How could we ever hope to accomplish anything other than galloping neurosis?
The answer, then, must not deal with goals at all, or not with tangible goals, anyway. It would take reams of paper to develop this subject to fulfillment. God only knows how many books have been written on “the meaning of man” and that sort of thing, and god only knows how many people have pondered the subject. (I use the term “god only knows” purely as an expression.) There’s very little sense in my trying to give it up to you in the proverbial nutshell, because I’m the first to admit my absolute lack of qualifications for reducing the meaning of life to one or two paragraphs.
I’m going to steer clear of the word “existentialism,” but you might keep it in mind as a key of sorts. You might also try something called Being and Nothingness by Jean-Paul Sartre, and another little thing called Existentialism: From Dostoyevsky to Sartre. These are merely suggestions. If you’re genuinely satisfied with what you are and what you’re doing, then give those books a wide berth. (Let sleeping dogs lie.) But back to the answer. As I said, to put our faith in tangible goals would seem to be, at best, unwise. So we do not strive to be firemen, we do not strive to be bankers, nor policemen, nor doctors. WE STRIVE TO BE OURSELVES.
But don’t misunderstand me. I don’t mean that we can’t BE firemen, bankers, or doctors— but that we must make the goal conform to the individual, rather than make the individual conform to the goal. In every man, heredity and environment have combined to produce a creature of certain abilities and desires— including a deeply ingrained need to function in such a way that his life will be MEANINGFUL. A man has to BE something; he has to matter.
As I see it then, the formula runs something like this: a man must choose a path which will let his ABILITIES function at maximum efficiency toward the gratification of his DESIRES. In doing this, he is fulfilling a need (giving himself identity by functioning in a set pattern toward a set goal), he avoids frustrating his potential (choosing a path which puts no limit on his self-development), and he avoids the terror of seeing his goal wilt or lose its charm as he draws closer to it (rather than bending himself to meet the demands of that which he seeks, he has bent his goal to conform to his own abilities and desires).
In short, he has not dedicated his life to reaching a pre-defined goal, but he has rather chosen a way of life he KNOWS he will enjoy. The goal is absolutely secondary: it is the functioning toward the goal which is important. And it seems almost ridiculous to say that a man MUST function in a pattern of his own choosing; for to let another man define your own goals is to give up one of the most meaningful aspects of life— the definitive act of will which makes a man an individual.
Let’s assume that you think you have a choice of eight paths to follow (all pre-defined paths, of course). And let’s assume that you can’t see any real purpose in any of the eight. THEN— and here is the essence of all I’ve said— you MUST FIND A NINTH PATH.
Naturally, it isn’t as easy as it sounds. You’ve lived a relatively narrow life, a vertical rather than a horizontal existence. So it isn’t any too difficult to understand why you seem to feel the way you do. But a man who procrastinates in his CHOOSING will inevitably have his choice made for him by circumstance.
So if you now number yourself among the disenchanted, then you have no choice but to accept things as they are, or to seriously seek something else. But beware of looking for goals: look for a way of life. Decide how you want to live and then see what you can do to make a living WITHIN that way of life. But you say, “I don’t know where to look; I don’t know what to look for.”
And there’s the crux. Is it worth giving up what I have to look for something better? I don’t know— is it? Who can make that decision but you? But even by DECIDING TO LOOK, you go a long way toward making the choice.
If I don’t call this to a halt, I’m going to find myself writing a book. I hope it’s not as confusing as it looks at first glance. Keep in mind, of course, that this is MY WAY of looking at things. I happen to think that it’s pretty generally applicable, but you may not. Each of us has to create our own credo— this merely happens to be mine.
If any part of it doesn’t seem to make sense, by all means call it to my attention. I’m not trying to send you out “on the road” in search of Valhalla, but merely pointing out that it is not necessary to accept the choices handed down to you by life as you know it. There is more to it than that— no one HAS to do something he doesn’t want to do for the rest of his life. But then again, if that’s what you wind up doing, by all means convince yourself that you HAD to do it. You’ll have lots of company.
And that’s it for now. Until I hear from you again, I remain,
If you guys want to find out more about Hunter Thompson and who he was, keep reading.
A significant icon of the counterculture, Hunter S. Thompson has to his credit the creation of Gonzo journalism, where a writer becomes so involved in their research and story that they end up becoming a central figure of the piece. He was an American author and journalist best known for his loud writing style, specifically in his novel, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1971). Thompson also gained attention for his illicit use of drugs and admiration for firearms. The fame and recognition he received during his lifetime did not keep Thompson away from depressive psychological problems; he committed suicide in 2005 following a bout of health problems.
Born in Louisville, Kentucky, U.S on July 18, 1937, Hunter S. Thompson was the son of Jack Robert Thompson, a public insurance adjuster and Virginia Ray Davison, a librarian. The family moved to 2437 Ransdell Avenue, in the Cherokee Triangle neighborhood of The Highlands when Thompson was six. His father died of myasthenia gravis when Thompson was fourteen. Holding a keen interest in sports, the athletic Thompson joined Louisville’s Castlewood Athletic Club where he excelled in basketball. He attended the Highland Middle, Atherton High and Louisville Male High schools and also became a member of the prestigious Athenaeum Literary Association. In his younger and adolescent years, Thompson often found himself in trouble with the law.
After the completion of his schooling, Thompson joined the Air Force where he discovered two new aspects of his personality, his love for writing and outrageous behavior. In Florida, Thompson became a sports reporter for the base newspaper but was fired in 1958 following his dishonorable behavior. He was also fired from other jobs including one at Time magazine. He left for South America in 1961 where he wrote for The National Observer. He returned to the United States two years later but continued writing for The National Observer. Later, Thompson moved to San Francisco where he completed and published his first book, Hell’s Angels: The Strange and Terrible Saga of the Outlaw Motorcycle Gangs (1966).
During the late 1960s moving onto the 70s, Thompson continued writing in various magazine including Ramparts, Esquire, Harper’s, Scanlan’s and Rolling Stones. Desperation to write and meet deadlines while suffering a writing block became the birth of Gonzo journalism which saved his career. In 1971, Thompson published Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas which was largely about his own drug-induced, wild adventures. A year later, Thompson covered the presidential campaign for The Rolling Stones publishing his articles as Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail ’72. Thompson became a cult figure at the peak of his popularity and his profile was covered by prominent publications such as The New Yorker and Playboy.
From 1985 to 1989, Thompson wrote a column for the San Francisco Examiner. Some of Thompson’s other significant works include Generation of Swine: Gonzo Paper Vol. 2: Tales of Shame and Degradation in the ’80’s, Volume 3 of the Gonzo Paper: Songs of the Doomed, Polo is my Life and The Rum Diary: The Long Lost Novel By Hunter S. Thompson (1998).
Living on a 100-acre farm in Woody Creek, Colorado, Thompson spent his life writing, listening to loud music, drinking, target shooting and motorcycling. On February 20, 2005, Thompson died of a self inflicted gunshot wound.
The letter that was sent by Hunter to his friend, was shared with me literally hours ago by a long time friend Rasim.
“Salam Rashad, came across this text and knew immediately that you will enjoy it!” was the message he sent to me, accompanied with the link. And he was right, I did enjoy it. Moreover, this letter came in at such a right time. I had to re-read some paragraphs to let it really sink in. I would like to urge you to send this letter to anyone who you think, needs to read this amazing letter.
*source FS Blog & famousauthors.org