And the Hippos Were Boiled in Their Tanks (edition 2008)

Fuck up and interesting - everything you expect. ( )

Of interest to completists only. While the Burroughs parts are okay, the Kerouac parts are embarrassingly awkward and wooden. The best part of the book is the title. ( )

This was far more easy to read and far better than I ever would have expected from a joint effort of two of the more disjointed writers I've read. ( )

Fascinating to revisit the youthful, collaborative effort of Beat founders. Oddly enough, the title makes sense in retrospect.

"Plonger au fond du gouffre, Enfer ou Ciel, qu'importe?" -Baudelaire ( )

The afterword in this book would have me change my feelings about the novel. It appeals to the adoration I have for the two gents responsible for composing this work and completely detracts from its merit.Hippos is a middle of the road work. It brings nothing new and, to be honest, isn't written well enough to warrant mention. It was probably a fun book to write and it's a terribly fun book to read, but only if you're the sort of person who is really into Beat mythology. I can see why Hippos is a fan favorite. It represents an easily understandable piece by two of literature's most notoriously difficult writers. If you gave up on Naked Lunch and you couldn't quite make it through On the Road, you'll feel much more comfortable with this book, in which two very stylistic men deviate entirely from their trademark styles.As much as it pains me to say it, this book wasn't very good. For me personally, the previous statement represents a lot of growth. If I had read this a few years ago, this review would be much different. I'd be proclaiming the authors to be saints and recommending this book to any of my hip literary friends who would listen. As the years have gone by, however, I can see that Saint Kerouac wasn't perfect. That Burroughs was absurdly intelligent, but his work is nearly impossible to decipher. This book let me down. How do I face Kerouac again? What if I start seeing all the cracks in the foundation and my favorite books of all time are no longer my favorites? Will I maintain the facade? Or will I demote a man, whose essence I swore to fucking god was somehow physically sewn into my own soul, to the ranks of R.L. Stine and Clive Barker - authors who were great at the time, but were simply a phase? I don't know the answer to any of these questions and, if I'm honest, I don't like to think about them. ( )