We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold. The very first paragraph sets the tone of everything that will follow: Thompson (in the guise of his alter-ego, Raoul Duke) is one bad-ass dude who will get high anytime, anywhere, anyhow. Fear and Loathing is a one-note kind of performance. The book is definitely worth reading.īut. The Ralph Steadman illustrations, by themselves, are worth the price of admission. There is plenty to like about Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, plenty to admire, plenty to laugh at. ( Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas was originally a long two-part article in the November 11 issues of Rolling Stone, which is where I first encountered it.) very cool to contemplate when we were lounging around the college quad smoking a joint and leafing through the latest issue of–what was back then the hippest magazine in town– Rolling Stone. All the drug-taking, trashing of hotel rooms, reckless driving. Let’s face it: Fear and Loathing is the ultimate young person’s book: wild, unfettered, over the top. (Thompson actually lived and rode with the Angels for a year.) Thompson comes off as an intrepid, cool, and brave writer.īut the success of that book seems to have led Thompson down the road of more participation and less journalism–which reaches its zenith (or nadir, depending on your point of view) in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. When Thompson is stomped and severely beaten by the Angels near the end of the book, it doesn’t feel like a stunt, but as the price a journalist sometimes must pay for immersing himself so fully in a story. Yes, Thompson was part of that story too, but in Hell’s Angels our focus remains fixed on that strange and scary and fascinating motorcycle gang, not on Thompson, per se. Where the balance between “gonzo” and “journalism” is a bit more evenly split. But I’m not one of them.įor my money, Hunter Thompson’s peak may have been reached in his very first book, Hell’s Angels (1966) where the balance between being a “journalist” and being a “participant” in the story achieves a wonderfully complicated and delicate (first time anyone has ever used that adjective in reference to Thompson, I’ll bet) balance. I know there are plenty of folks who still adore the book (it was made into a Johnny Depp film in 1998). Which, I have to admit, was a bit of a relief because I thought maybe I was just being an old fart and a fuddy-dud for not responding to Fear and Loathing with the unbridled enthusiasm and appreciation I once did. Just as a reality check, I asked my friend Tom about Fear and Loathing and he had a similar reaction to mine upon re-reading it several years ago: “Just didn’t hold up for me. Maybe you have to be young and intrepid and foolhardy to truly appreciate that kind of reckless performance. wondering how long before some poor kid ends up in the emergency room, where the adults will valiantly try to save the young daredevil’s spleen. Better to let our fond memories stay unsullied by the passage of years and experience and (dare I say it?) maturity.īecause there’s a sophomoric excessiveness to the whole Fear and Loathing performance that begins to wear thin after a while. Reminds me a bit of those MTV “reality” shows like the Jackass franchise–where we see young people performing stupider and stupider stunts.
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Sometimes it may be better to not reunite with some of these books from our past. Still a hoot, still fun to read, but not exactly the breakthrough piece of journalism I thought it was when I first encountered it back in the early Seventies. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1971). That’s what it is like reuniting with Hunter S. and you gradually realize that what seemed so fresh and innovative back when you were nineteen now seems a little forced and gimmicky. So what happens when you revisit a book that once seemed to you the height of cool, daring, and originality? A book that seemed so hip and fun and wild and out there.