“Hunter often said Harrell was the best copy editor he’d ever worked with” (William McKeen, Outlaw Journalist). But what was the rest of the story?

Keep This Quiet! captures the fear and loathing, charm and romance of Hunter in the late Sixties–along with tales of two other underground authors. Now, for the first time, with the permission of his Estate, it reveals stories, memories, and previously unpublished letters by Hunter, before and after he worked with Margaret on Hell’s Angels. Included are genuine, funny—or distraught—letters he sent Margaret. Also, priceless reminiscences of some of Hunter’s oldest friends: William Kennedy, David Pierce, Rosalie Sorrels, Oscar Acosta, and editor Jim Silberman—covered in no other account.

But woven into the mix—and into Margaret;s colorful life—saved from the wreckage and trash bin of time, is a missing chapter in the life of two other outlaw writers: New York City poet genius Milton Klonsky and flamboyant Belgian poet Jan Mensaert.

Cover image: Unknown
Cover design: Gaelyn Larrick

In this sequel to Keep This Quiet! Margaret lives in villages in Morocco with her exotic, fascinating, unstable Belgian poet husband, Jan Mensaert. But the book focuses on her encounters with the three “outlaw” authors. She re-energizes on a one-liner diet of advice, deeply digested and wise, from genius-poet Milton Klonsky, which she reports to the reader, magically, as if her mind were a tape recorder. Also, the reader is privy to Gonzo updates from Hunter S. Thompson—the relationship never losing its hold, even necessity. At one point, trying desperately to find her in 1971, Hunter writes, “Dear Margaret, Where are you and why? I’ve lost track completely. My last definite word was from a toilet-hole in Algiers.” A most fitting ending takes place at Hunter’s Owl Farm. In fine form, he is trying to pick back up the romance and take it to the next level. They both are.

MARGARET’S COMMENT
Just landed on New York City soil for a brief stopover in New York, where did I go? Of course, unannounced, my feet took me down to West Fourth Street in the Village, walking the entire distance from midtown, telling myself I didn’t know where I was walking to. Of course, I knew. To Milton Klonsky’s for my yearly indispensable feasting on his witticisms and steely analysis of whatever current predicament I found myself in in my marriage. His advice might be, when I bemoaned Jan Mensaert’s suicidal tendencies, “Give him something to rise to. . . Or go down with him. But don’t be a bystander while this man commits suicide.”

Never, that is, be a bystander in your life. Plunge into it. I always felt ten miles high, after listening to such talk from an insider, who knew life through and through. And had the soul of a guru. With Hunter the attraction was otherwise, but—necessary. Often we caught up on these by phone and letter on these trips to the States. Then back to Morocco. Fourteen years of Oum Kalthoum, and Jacques Brel, and of course Mozart, all Jan’s favorites. And I forget Piaf.

Cover design: Gaelyn Larrick