From the bestselling gonzo author of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas Now published at GBP5.99 as part of the Bloomsbury Classic Reads series Dumpbins and advertising
Hunter S. Thompson was born and raised in Louisville, Kentucky. He is a regular contributor to various national and international publications. He now lives in a fortified compound in Colorado.
Yes, Thompson has written a novel, but it got lost many years ago and has just resurfaced. Not surprisingly, it's autobiographical, so expect some pretty wild antics as its journalist hero carouses through the tropics.
'Remarkable - a genuine, 100% proof discovery of great literary importance' Mail on Sunday 'Hilarious, utterly real and tragic ... A lithe, well-crafted gem of a novel which leaves the reader disturbed and grinning in a way that makes people sitting nearby change seats' Scotland on Sunday 'Crackling, twisted, searing, paced to a deft prose rhythm ... a shot of Gonzo with a rum chaser' San Francisco Chronicle 'Wild, witty, angry, cynical and sarcastic ... A funny book that will make your life seem boring by comparison' Scene
When the celebrated iconoclast was a feisty kid working for an English-language newspaper in San Juan 40 years ago, he wrote, and then put aside, a novel, which is here resurrected. It is very much a young man's book, clearly based on Thompson's own situation and some of the peopleÄmostly drunks and layaboutsÄwho gravitated to a loosely supervised journalistic stint in the tropics. An introduction sets the scene, and the novel that follows is almost equally documentary in tone: young Kemp comes aboard at the News, gets to know its perpetually embattled proprietor and some of his feckless staff. He observes the island, as the invasion of American tourists and values is just beginning to change its lazy, sun-struck character. He gets involved in a drunken fight with the police, is thrown in jail, bailed out and goes in for a little shame-faced PR writing. He comes between a wild colleague and the equally unbuttoned young Connecticut girl he has brought out to visit him, and the end is a youth's easy-won nostalgia for a silly, drunken time. As he always has done, Thompson lays on the drinking and general hell-raising very thick (the amount of rum consumed would dry up a distillery) and indulges flashes of bad temper toward commercialism while always showing a willingness to do whatever it takes to make a buck. His style is less hallucinatory and exclamatory than it later became, but the groundwork is there. The best parts of the book are its occasional, almost grudging, acknowledgments of natural beauty; the people in it are no more than props. Author tour. (Nov.)