Hunter S. Thompson, RIP.

Mr. Fear and Loathing is dead. I couldn't stand his stuff; his influence is fairly malign, inspiring writers to plumb autobiographical depths for prurience's sake. Gore Vidal once wrote about Tennessee Williams:

By and large, American novelists and playwrights have not had to kill themselves in order to be noticed. There are still voluntary readers and restless playgoers out there. But since so many American writers gradually drink themselves to death (as do realtors, jockeys, and former officers of the Junior League), these sodden buffaloes are now attracting the sort of Cautionary Tale-spinner that usually keens over suicide-poets.

Thompson was one more writer who couldn't live up to the absurd machista pose with which he'd wooed scores of would-be journalists.