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Let
me begin by stating that I was originally working on a review of Henry
Miller’s
Tropic of Cancer for this month’s column when I heard the news that Dr. Thompson
had taken his own life on February 20. I apologize if it seems crass for me to write
this review at this time, but given my genuine interest in
reviewing one of my
personal favourite novels of all time by one of my favourite people of all time, I had to
write this instead.
“We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the
desert when the drugs
began to take hold.”
The line that started one
of the maddest, most psychotic, drug- and alcohol-induced adventures of all time—one that
was responsible for unleashing on the
world the persona of a madman named Hunter S.
Thompson.
The novel follows two men—Raoul Duke, a “gonzo” journalist (a
genre that
Thompson created), and his attorney, Dr. Gonzo—on an adventure to Las
Vegas in that “foul year of our lord, nineteen hundred and seventy-one.” Duke has been
sent to Vegas by an unnamed publication to cover a dirt-bike race that takes place in the
Nevada desert, but what he is far more interested in discovering is the death of the
American dream. After basically abandoning the dirt-bike story, taking many drugs, and
abusing just about every facet of the Las Vegas hotel industry in search of the cause of
the deceased ideology of America, the pair decide to head across town and start all over
again, in a new hotel, to abuse more drugs and alcohol at a police narcotics
convention.
It’s important to point out that this last point is about as
close as possible to describing the unbeatable humour of Hunter S. Thompson. Having read
much of his work, including his more recent articles for ESPN.com, I can categorically
support any of his books—but I recommend that readers start with this
one.
The book is—much like the life of its author—an honest look into the
death
of the American Dream. But there’s also a definite universal appeal to the
humour of this book. The writing style is so energetic, the language so
brilliant and cutting. Everything about this experience is beyond even the
wildest of expectations. In fact, it was the book that I had always hoped that
someone had written—and when I discovered that it existed, I was beyond
thrilled.
It’s a tragedy that this man of profound will and
unconquerable spirit will
write no more. That he has become one more incredibly
talented, groundbreaking artist to add to the ever-growing list of self-destructions is
truly unfortunate. His work, however, will undoubtedly live on for generations to
come.
