This is a very bizarre and misleading three stars that I’m giving the book, Generation of Swine by Hunter S. Thompson. It’s misleading for a number of reasons, the biggest being that when you have a little over 100 pieces that were presumably originally written for periodicals of all stripes (the book doesn’t say where they were originally published) taken out of context and thrown together in a book, and when some of them are superb, some average and some terrible, you do the math and somehow, you come out with an unflashy, three-star experience. But this book wasn’t that at all, even though that’s what it looks like from what I gave it.
Here’s what it is: a collection of journalistic essays that starts out exciting, gonzo, or new, or whatever, and ends with essays that have devolved into political opinion pieces. Granted, even these are more fun to read than your average political journalist (who, but Hunter Thompson can get away with a weekly column labeling politicians Swine of the Week and still be taken seriously?). But Hunter Thompson has always been at his best when he and his friends give you the tour that the other guides wouldn’t. You’re not sure about the facts that are given on this tour; for instance, when Hunter claims that he met Bishop Desmond Tutu, and Desmond told him to bet against the Bears in Super Bowl XX, “Until I spoke with Desmond I was taking the Bears and not worrying too much about points…” you don’t quite know what to make of it. Or when Hunter’s friend Skinner (who is Skinner by the way? I have no idea. The story certainly doesn’t tell us) calls Hunter up and tells him to pack his bags because they are going to Port-au-Prince to cover the Haitian revolution from the voodoo angle, you scratch your head.
These tales were all firmly documented [Skinner] said, by American
doctors and experts. Local voodoo priests had created their own
monstrous labor pool, making everything from American baseballs to fine
rum and Haggar slacks.
What’s Hunter’s response? “It made no sense, but as a story it was hard to ignore.”
Skinner goes on and says: “I can put you in touch with the Big Boys, the voodoo priests and the zombie masters.”
What does Hunter say to this?
Why not? I thought. It seemed like the right time to go, so I told him to
hold the plane and make arrangements to pick up some cash in Miami.
We would be get into Port-au-Prince in time for dinner tonight.
Full disclosure: I have developed a fairly healthy obsession of Hunter S. Thompson. I’ve read many of his Rolling Stone pieces as well as Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and his piece on the Kentucky Derby: The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved. I’ve seen a number of documentaries about him, as well as heard people from Pat Buchanan to Johnny Depp to Jimmy Carter to Bill Murray talk about him with deference and respect as well as bewilderment. It comes down to this for me: Am I insanely in love with the writing or the writer? And the million-dollar corollary to this question: With this style of storytelling, this type of genre-bending, this kind of opaque journalism where so much dramatic license is taken, where the journalist’s take on the story is as important as the story itself, where the journalist actually becomes part of the story, does that first question even matter? It’s what I’m left to ponder. Generation of Swine has been a turning point for me and my opinion of Hunter S. Thompson. Without the gonzo, without the storyteller in the center of the story, shaping it as he sees fit, I’m left thinking that the writer and the writing have to blur into one bizarre entity in order to pique my interest. Otherwise, it’s just three-star writing.