I won’t argue that Thompson was a “great man,” because that title requires a whole lot more than just talent, in my book. But the implication that your personal awareness or lack of awareness of a person’s existence is the final arbiter of greatness makes you seem a bit short sighted. Where did great people come from before you were born? How will we know them after you die?
H.S.T. was brilliant, sometimes. Hells Angels was a great book, as was Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. (Speaking only for myself here, I found some of his subsequent writings a little hard to get through.) He was also an asshole, a freak show, a dancing bear, and, judging from the manner of his death, either a completely selfish bastard or a man in the grips of a severe depression. (Or both, obviously.) That does not detract from his occasional brilliance as a writer. I was a fan of his writing.
I was also witness, however to an appearance of his at the Beacon Theater in NYC on election night once (I think it was for the first GHW Bush election, but I could be wrong) when he arrived more than an hour late, was basically dragged in, muttered incoherently for what seemed like about 15 minutes and staggered off. Granted, it was probably stupid of me to have hoped for anything else, but I really didn’t need to pay that much money to watch someone demonstrate that drugs and alcohol render one stupid (or, to take a kindlier view, that enough years of drugs and alcohol take their toll no matter who you are.)
Does anyone remember Jim Morrison? Talented and an asshole. Elvis Presley? Janis Joplin? Yes, I am aware that none of them are believed to be intentional suicides, but they were certainly fucked up campers who behaved revoltingly and are accorded greatness by some.
There is no denying Thompson’s talents and no denying that he died like a selfish old bastard. People who take vast quantities of drugs frequently do act like selfish bastards. It doesn’t have to be an either-or proposition, and it doesn’t mean that the people who love them necessarily love them any less.
I was, for some years of my life, an emotional hostage to a person who was in the habit of ingesting vast quantities of alcohol and painkillers and then calling me for help in the wee hours of the morning. Like an idiot, I generally responded and spent many hours playing “hide the razor blades.” I loved that person and I hated them desperately and if they had died in the grips of their madness I would have mourned them unconsolably. That doesn’t mean that that person wasn’t acting like an asshole or that I wasn’t a clueless, drama-seeking moron for letting myself get involved in the whole thing.
I wish Thompson’s family all the best, and hope that, if nothing else, they are able to take consolation in their newfound peace and quiet and freedom from the anxiety of wondering what will happen next.