Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson

I’ve never read anything this decadent and depraved, yet so important and brilliantly crafted…as I find myself almost enamored by the ugliness and perversity to which Hunter S Thompson sunk into. It’s like trespassing his mind, his most personal evocative thoughts to the point that the reader himself loses his sense of reality, that thin, gray line between51J9D25ZMGL fact and fiction so sporadically blurred but producing an effect no fiction or journalistic endeavor alone could have achieved. He disembowels the myth of the great American dream with cruel, heartless precision, like a vicious slasher, hacking to death every dream one ever dreams. He doesn’t sugar-coat, instead presents the ugly truth of a never existent societal foundation upon which all dreams are relayed into the land of ones fancies. With his drug addled brain, and speeches fueled with erratic bursts of conversations going in no particular direction, his prose lays naked before the reader, exposing not just his personal experience but the great facade of which everyone is aware of yet no one speaks of. After reading this “novel”, I too am, in the Doctors kind words sprayed with “shit-mist.”

  • I took the blotter and ate it. My attorney was now fumbling with the salt shaker containing the cocaine. Opening it. Spilling it. Then screaming and grabbing at the air, as our fine white dust blew up and out across the desert highway. A very expensive little twister rising up from the Great Red Shark.
  • No, this is not a good town for psychedelic drugs. Reality itself is too twisted.
  • In a closed society where everybody’s guilty, the only crime is getting caught. In a world of thieves, the only final sin is stupidity.
  • It is a weird feeling to sit in a Las Vegas hotel at four in the morning – hunkered down with a notebook and a tape recorder in a $75 – a – day suite and a fantastic room service bill, run up in forty – eight hours of total madness – knowing that just as soon as dawn comes up you are going to flee without paying a fucking penny…go stomping out through the lobby and call your red convertible down from the garage and stand there waiting for it with a suitcase.
  • About 20 miles east of Baker I stopped to check the drug bag. The sun was hot and I felt like killing something. Anything. Even a big lizard. Drill the fucker. I got my attorney’s .357 Magnum out of the trunk and spun the cylinder. It was loaded all the way around: Long, nasty little slugs – 158 grains with a fine flat trajectory and painted Aztec gold on the tips. I blew the horn a few times, hoping to call up an iguana. Get the buggers moving. They were out there, I knew, in that goddamn sea of cactus – hunkered down, barely breathing, and every one of the stinking little bastards was loaded with deadly poison.
  • Three fast explosions knocked me off balance. Three deafening, double – action blasts from the .357 in my right hand. Jesus! Firing at nothing, for no reason at all. Bad craziness.
  • “What the fuck are these people talking about?” my attorney whispered. “You’d have to be crazy on acid to think a joint looked like a goddamn cockroach!”
  • When you bring an act into this town, you want to bring it in heavy. Don’t waste any time with cheap shucks and misdemeanors. Go straight for the jugular. Get right into felonies.
  • The mentality of Las Vegas is so grossly atavistic that a really massive crime often slips by unrecognized.
  • “When are you taking off?” Bruce asked. “As soon as possible,” I said. “No point hanging around this town any longer. I have all I need. Anything else would only confuse me.”SteadmanCar
  • Now they looked like somebody had just sprayed their table with shit-mist.
  • It has been a waste of time, a lame fuckaround that was only – in clear retrospect – a cheap excuse for a thousand cops to spend a few days in Las Vegas and lay the bill on the taxpayers. Nobody had learned anything- or at least nothing except new. Except maybe me…and all I learned was that the District Attorneys’ Association is about ten years behind the grim truth and harsh kinetic realities of what they just recently learned to call “the Drug Culture” in the Year of Our lord, 1971.
  • I was so far beyond simple fatigue that I was beginning to feel nicely adjusted to the idea of permanent hysteria.
  • They are still burning the taxpayers for thousands of dollars to make films about “the dangers of LSD,” at a time when acid is widely known – to everybody but cops.
  • Vegas is so full of natural freaks-people who are genuinely twisted-that drugs aren’t really a problem, except for cops and the scag syndicate.


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