Oddly enough, the book “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” contains not one word about drugs or narcotic intoxication. Yes, he starts with detailed descriptions of drugs, widening and narrowing of consciousness, but inside the jars no nothing – it’s just a sign, but hunter just loves to mock, cheat and last drug.
“Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” is a book primarily about McCarthy, about Vietnam, about Nixon. About the internal dialogue of Charles Freck from the “Cloud” beast, around which pull together red flags, a panorama of America at the junction of the 60s and 70s is equidistant from both the children’s books about kindness and love (Bible included), and from the yellow press, which frightens Americans the Communists and the “dirty bikers”. She never could have been written nowhere but in this city – because every American knows that it hid Henry Ford or, at worst, Oprah Winfrey, and how else to identify a real-life James bond, if you don’t drive a sports car, don’t drink expensive champagne and put three monthly salaries at stake in baccarat?
Las Vegas is 15 minutes of fame for any grey American, the opposite huge theatre, in which spectators come to show themselves (to overspend) and almost don’t notice the troupe of actors in impeccable black tuxedos. But Thompson is a smart virus, and he understands that the problem is not just vanity – the problem in the whole ideology of America, which promotes not builders and engineers – conditional, and Batman and Batmanov, and the status quo don’t like anybody – not Batmann, nor engineers, nor, God forbid, blacks. And that Vegas brings to the absolute, and reveals the body of an American dream – all is lost, God no way out (even Zebra no), the dream originally was stillborn.