Hunter S. Thompson

The car suddenly veered off the road and we came to a sliding halt in the gravel. I was hurled against the dashboard. My attorney was slumped over the wheel. “What’s wrong?” I yelled. “We can’t stop here. This is bat country!

and the sad notes floated out to the patio and hung in the trees like birds too tired to fly

I have no taste for either poverty or honest labor, so writing is the only recourse left for me

Journalism is "a low trade and a habit worse than heroin, a strange seedy world of misfits and drunkards and failures.

We cannot expect people to have respect for law and order until we teach respect to those we have entrusted to enforce those laws.

I haven't found a drug yet that can get you anywhere near as high as a sitting at a desk writing, trying to imagine a story no matter how bizarre it is, [or] going out and getting into the weirdness of reality and doing a little time on the Proud Highway.

Maybe there is no Heaven. Or maybe this is all pure gibberish - a product of the demented imagination of a lazy drunken hillbilly with a heart full of hate who has found a way to live out where the real winds blow - to sleep late, have fun, get wild, drink whisky, and drive fast on empty streets with nothing in mind except falling in love and not getting arrested... Res ipsa loquitur. Let the good times roll.