Pixelated Semantics

A schizotypical inventory

Blasted words

A spray of last, or perhaps, quasi-last, words on and from HST.

On the art of writing:

"One day you just don't appear at the El Adobe bar anymore: You shut the door, paint the windows black, rent an electric typewriter and become the monster you always were - the writer."

And from his wife and son's statement:

"He stomped terra."

And this gem from his friend Mike Cleverly (but please don't let this start any thoughts of conspiracy - nobody ever expects a suicide):

"He's the last person in the world I would have expected to kill himself. I would've been less surprised if he had shot me."

Some right-wing journals are enjoying their opportunity to feast on the corpse and pronounce things like this "may definitively mark the conclusion of the chaotic 'baby-boomer' rebellion" [not while I'm alive, comrade] or the calculated cheap shot (as if from a failed wannabe Gonzo perhaps?) that HST "had much in common with Burroughs and Ginsberg [...] their products were mainly noise" or, for god's sake, "nobody knew or cared who he was" - clearly not the distilled wisdom of moral correctness, but poisonous bile thankfully mostly confined to the pages of the kind of publication I doubt Hunter S. would have even wasted a shotgun cartridge on target practise with. There's plenty more obits today: and come Friday 25th February at 5pm at Urban Grind, Boundary Street in the West End of Brisbane there will be a modest wake for HST, and everyone is invited to bring a reading. That's it - don't forget to throw a few more countercultural rebels on the fire.

Item posted by AutoEditor at 8:50 am ::