Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

I read this on a long aeroplane flight and embarrassed myself by being one of those annoying people who laughs uncontrollably at an unshared joke amongst a crowd of sombre considerate people. Trying to keep the laughter inside just caused me to curl up and giggle insanely until the tears ran down my face. Drug culture - I don't approve. Non-payment of hotel bills - I also don't approve. Wrecking of rental cars - similarly bad. I imagine that if Thompson was genuinely anything like the character portrayed in his small book, I wouldn't have liked him. But I defy anyone to read this book without laughing their head off their shoulders.

This book was written roughly a decade before I was even born. Each generation supposedly falls into a pattern of trying to top the last one, everyone getting ever more outrageous and shocking with each year. But as I closed the back cover of "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas," all I could think is that it's hard to imagine any generation topping Thompson's story of drug-fueled depravity. Assuming it's at least mostly true, of course.

I also can't imagine that if such depravity were reached or exceeded by others it could be more succinctly and powerfully captured than this. Under other circumstances a lesser writer would/could not have written a book in which vomiting, paranoia, and grapefruit figured so heavily into the tale while yet show more still being so captivating that it could be considered beautiful.

It's odd to say, but Fear and Loathing had me yearning to find for myself a lifestyle so full of urgency and passion as the characters within -- even if, like the characters themselves, that passion is for self-destruction and nothing resembling dignity or nobility. Writing that can do that takes two things: balls and talent. A brutally fun book. show less

I should be absolutely 100% appalled by this book. I should be outraged! I should be steamed! Fear & Loathing's wanton, unapologetic depictions of controlled substance binges and boozy ennui masquerading as "Gonzo" journalism should be an affront to my moral sensibilities. Is getting pulled over for a DUI off I-15 in Baker, CA, and convincing the CA Highway Patrol to let you off with a warning based on the stipulation that you pull into the rest stop up ahead and sleep it off any laughing matter? Yes (I mean no; no!) it isnt! So why am I in tears? There's nothing funny about drunk driving -- unless, that is, Hunter S. Thompson's the one sitting sauced behind the wheel.

Am I bad person for impersonating a hyena (explosions of spittle show more spewing over my paperback copy of Fear & Loathing I addictively consumed in one sitting) when Hunter attends the anti-drug conference in Vegas and shows up in his sleep deprived, rowdy rancourous self and interacts with police officers, engaging the more gullible cops with ludicrous conversations about drugs & drug enforcement, while completely stoned on dope; out of his freaking mind on a cocktail of drugs ranging from shrooms to blow to mescaline and who knows what all else? He mocks the anti-drug movement merely by appearing at the conference. Can't the cops, experts in drug detection & prevention, tell there's a raving drug abuser in their midst? And as bad of a bad boy Hunter S. Thompson behaves, what about his lawyer instigating the entire sordid mess, and encouraging Hunter's highs in the first place? How did Hunter get away with so much irresponsible behavior and, rather than scold him for it, make us readers want to mimic his depraved attorney and belch out, "Party on Hunter! Go for it! Gonzo gonzo all the way!"

How can such a good book like Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas be so bad? I feel guilty for loving & adoring it so much. I think I should be arrested for giving it 5 stars. I cannot and will not recommend it (my morality trumps Hunter in the end), though I think you'd be a fool not to read it. show less

I can understand why Thompson's books brought about a sea-change for journalism, blending fact and fiction to create what became known as gonzo journalism. I can also understand how the rambling account of a drug-soaked, demented journey can be entertaining. However, surreal narrative is just not for me. I appreciate Thompson's immense talent but don't particularly enjoy it. Still, this is one book I'm glad I tried. His comprehension of the spirit of the times is exhaustive, if localized - my memory of 1971 is very different. Ralph Steadman must have been along for the ride, his illustrations are spot on.

I really loved this, which I wasn't expecting too. I haven't seen the movie, and all I knew about the book was that it was a semi-autobiography detailing the drug-addled adventures of an acid-soaked writer during one week in Vegas. I was dubious as to how entertaining that might be. I needn't have worried.

I'm not sure how closely the story correlates to real life, but essentially, Thompson (as his alter ego Raoul Duke) is sent to Las Vegas to cover a racing tournament, and brings along his gigantic Samoan attorney who is as much of an irredeemable basehead as he is. The duo spend a week roaring around Vegas in a red convertible, the trunk containing enough drugs to "kill an entire platoon of United States Marines," and essentially bare show more their asses at every law they find. They trash hotel rooms, terrify hitchhikers, and infiltrate a police convention on drug crimes, all while speeding off their heads and hallucinating about "huge pterodactyls lumbering around the corridors in pools of fresh blood" or "two women fucking a polar bear." The sense of an alternately fascinating and horrifying seven day drug trip is perfectly supplemented by Ralph Steadman's grotesque, blotchy illustrations, scattered throughout the book (my only complaint is that the scenes they depict usually occurred about twelve pages ago).

You'd imagine that two hundred pages of acid trips would grow old fast, but Thompson's skill as a writer is such that it maintains its lustre all the way through. Raoul Duke is one of those loveable characters who lives purely on fanatical, reckless impulse, with no consequences to either his freedom or health. Any real person who took the amount of drugs Raoul and his attorney do would be dead in seconds and probably also find themselves immortalised as an oddity in a journal of medicine. Likewise, a brush with the law and twenty years in prison would also be inevitable; unlike the health consequences, however, Thompson sweats over this with constant paranoia. Fortunately for the reader, he has a great sense of humour about it all.

My favourite quote, on the topic of highway police:

"No cop was ever born who isn't a sucker for a finely-executed high-speed Controlled Drift all the way around one of those cloverleaf freeway interchanges."

The place of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas as a watershed moment in twentieth century culture was deservedly won. There's a whole slew of themes and messages in this book, which Thompson described as a "vile epitaph for the drug culture of the sixties," but I was enjoying it too much to bother thinking about them. Fundamentally, it's just an exhilerating, high-octane journey through the neon lights, vomit-streaked hotel rooms and warped culture of 1971 Las Vegas. A hell of a toboggan ride! show less

Decided to read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas a little while back when Hunter S. Thompson's remains got propelled into the upper atmosphere. I felt embarrassingly ignorant because the book had completely slipped beneath my biblioradar. (How sad that it takes a suicide and a rocket-fuelled exit to make some folks aware of your writing.)

It is a book very well worth reading, if you haven't already discovered it - I found parts laugh out loud funny (that hitchhiker! the shortcut across the airport runway!). Thompson is an engaging writer even if you are justifiably horrified at the subject matter (drugs, drugs, drugs and more drugs ... oh, and did I mention drugs?).

Never mind, it's fine to live a little vicariously, and Thompson's prose show more very quickly intoxicates without the need for illegal substances.

Thompson describes a journey to Las Vegas made with his attorney friend, Dr. Gonzo. In the boot of the convertible they load industrial quantities of just about every illegal substance known to man and set out to find their own version of the American dream while consuming the lot.

Thompson (travelling under the pseudonym Raoul Duke) is ostensibly on assignment to cover a biker's race in the Nevada desert, but somehow fails to get the story. His attorney then proposes that they should attend a conference for drug-enforcement officers. The irony is, of course, deeply relished. show less

I remember reading about Thompson way back during my O-levels. His 'gonzo' style of writing - mixing reality and fiction together in a journalistic style - was fascinating. I was also intrigued by the movie starring Johnny Depp. It was all over Reddit, and people would constantly gush over it.

So, here I am, more than a decade later, finally checking out the book the movie's based on, and damn, what a ride it was! Initially, it felt more like a fever dream than reality, especially the events leading up to the race. The antics he and his 'attorney' get up to were hilarious and sad at the same time, mostly in the way they con their way through Las Vegas (and an assortment of characters).

The writing hit that sweet spot between being show more self-aware and absurd. He knows what he's talking about; he also knows what he's talking about is utterly ridiculous and nihilistic to the point Nietzsche would blush. Finding the elusive 'American Dream' is exactly that - a fading reality and a dream that was crushed much earlier. But more than that, I enjoyed his depiction of the police conference - the irony there was simply too much.

Of course, as I read more about the book (and how it came to be), I understood why and where its gonzo style comes from. Thompson himself noted that much of the drug-fuelled rampages he and his attorney go on in the book is fiction and that they were sober at the time. There are also sequences that were complete fiction (understandable) though much of the story is true or exaggerated from what actually happened.

Thompson has written a lot more since then and given fascinating interviews. Sadly, he took his own life at the age of 67, leaving behind this note: "No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun -- for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax -- This won't hurt."

Long live Thompson. No one will replace or can even emulate you. Now, go read the damn book you filthy degenerate. show less