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Monday 26 October 2009

Fear & Loathing '72

As a future son in law of Mary, I do sometimes get invited to stay for dinner and being the cheap sort of guy I am, I accepted the offer of a tasty roast chicken meal on a fine October bank holiday which, in a round about way, is why I’m writing this blog. Lounging on the coach in the recently refurbished kitchen/dining room and told I can’t gracefully retreat to the TV, I’ve been asked, via subtle blackmail and guilt-tripping, not to mention Mary’s bad back, put out while saving a trampoline from the gale-force winds, into contributing some nuggets of literary knowledge.

But what to write about? Kim Stanley Robinson’s mind expanding brilliant Mars trilogy? Or how about Max Brooks paranoia inducing Zombie Survival Guide, or the follow-up World War Z – An Oral History of the Zombie War? Or going back to my formative years, Katherine Kerr’s Deverry series (a series which is still ongoing, although unfortunately, as with Robert Jordan’s Wheel of Time series, the story has grown so large that the characters have lost much of their emotional resonance). All excellent works, and in the case of Robinson’s Mars books, the first books I truly loved, but none of them could be counted as the writer who has influenced me the most. That dubious accolade can only go to one author and, as it happens, that writer is not even a writer of fiction, although no one could honestly claim that his writing was entirely factual. However to misquote his favourite writer, F. Scott Fitzgerald, fiction can express more truth than any fact. A maxim that the good doctor lived his life by, because like too few writers his work was his life, or maybe it was his life that was his work?

Most, if not all of the works of Hunter S. Thompson, were autobiographical, giving a level of insight into his personal life like no other writer before (well maybe Kerouac) and along the way giving the world classics like The Great Shark Hunt, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and Hell’s Angels as well as countless columns, articles and rants, all delivered in his unique, literary and furious style. My personal favourite is Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail ’72.

Armed with nothing (especially any knowledge about politics) but a quart of bourbon, an instinct for the jugular and a quest to find the dark heart of the American Dream, Hunter dives into the world of the American presidential campaign. From private interviews with Richard Nixon in which the only topic of conversation was American football to the legendary back-biting anarchy of the McGovern campaign and the ‘Zoo Bus’, Hunter makes no pretence of being an impartial journalist and as he had no inclination to continue as a political reporter after the campaign was over, absolutely no hesitation to burn his bridges. He delivers brilliantly funny and cutting insights not only into the way campaigns were run at the time but into the cosy relationship between the press and the political players who are rightly their game. And even quickly develops and uncanny instinct for which way the political wind is blowing, which he demonstrates by betting and winning on the outcome of various primaries, to the extant that he laughingly describes how other journalists and even politicos are spotted reading Rolling Stone just to see what he’s going to say next.


Mary adds:
Not only will Eoin Keating make an excellent son-in-law, but his skills as a blogger will definitely come in handy. Mind you, next time I decide to undertake some mammoth task that requires muscle and brawn, I will cook a tasty dinner and invite my future son-in-law around before hand!

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Tuesday 28 July 2009

What a Swine!

I worried about it, listened with growing alarm at each radio report, I checked symptoms online, discussed protocols with fellow workers who listened politely, bored looks on their bemused faces. I cleaned my bedroom, figuring that no doctor would be able to tend to me if she had to climb over various un-specifiable obstacles and piles of unsorted junk, I stocked up on bottles of sparkling water – my treat, abandoned in these economic times – and armed myself with a stack of books. If I were going to be stuck in bed it would be in the excellent company of J.M. Coetzee. Boyhood: Scenes from Provincial Childhood lay on my bedside table, the last nine pages waiting to be savoured. This fictionalized memoir of Coetzee’s early life growing up in South Africa is followed by Youth, next on the reading list.

Monday morning I proceeded to come down with it: my eyes started to irritate, a headache descended, my ears felt funny and I definitely felt feverish. I dashed over to the chemist to buy a top of the range one-second thermometer - I’d wanted one for years, now was the perfect time - and stuck this new fangled must-have in my shell like: it was down! I couldn’t believe it: 36.3, not a single digit over 37. Still, I felt dog rough. Home beckoned, appointments cancelled for the rest of the day, sheets pulled over my head and sleep came instantly.

Tuesday morning, after a hearty breakfast, I settled in for a day’s rest (I still felt awful, I can assure you) and started reading: I finished Boyhood (it was excellent), got stuck into Youth and noted, with delight, that part three, Summertime, is due out in September.

It seems that I’m one of the lucky ones. Whatever it is, it’s not going to lay me low for long and John Maxwell Coetzee has been such good company that the time has passed quickly.

The last word, I will leave to the enigmatic Hunter S. Thompson who wrote, "In a nation ruled by swine, all pigs are upward-mobile; and the rest of us are fucked until we can put our acts together: not necessarily to win, but mainly to keep from losing completely. We owe that to ourselves and our crippled self-image as something better than a nation of panicked sheep."

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