by Hunter S Thompson
I'm readin it.
it good.
it's his (sort of) first but he still writes like a champ
great balance between vivid vulgarity and graceful poetic-ism-ness
i liked this:
I hadn't felt that way in a long time. Perhaps, in the ambush of those years, the idea that I was a champion had been shot out from under me. But I remembered it now and it made me feel old and slightly nervous that I had done so little in so long a time.
I leaned back in the chair and sipped my drink. The cook was banging around in the kitchen and for some reason the piano had stopped. From inside came a babble of Spanish, an incoherent background for my scrambled thoughts. For the first time I felt the foreignness of the place, the real distance I had put between me and my last foothold. There was no reason to feel pressure, but I felt it anyway - the pressure of hot air and passing time, an idle tension that builds up in places where men sweat twenty-four hours a day
No comments:
Post a Comment