The telegram is very clear, basic, and in his brief, perfect: "Run, stop here there is still room in the barrel of rum does not make a stop cock stop piles of money stop you all day booze to stop you stop fucking her all night long run because it could be short-lived. " The answer is equally eloquent: "I have special programs. I go there and I'll jump into the fray. A nice quiet drunk. " In spite of the assignment to which he embarked for Puerto Rico, a job that soon put in a corner, HS Thompson only has the intention to have a good time, as did Hemingway and Fitzgerald, his heroes. He has only to cross the beach and plunge into the ocean to put its flag on the island: "Now I felt better, warm and sleepy and free as a lark. With the palm trees that ran fast and hot sun that burned in the street, I felt that I had a feeling the first few months in Europe, a mixture of ignorance and tranquility Scazzi pure-go-all-the-devil with you when the wind gets up and begins to spin at an unknown point on the horizon. " The goal, increasingly, coincides with the bottom of the bottle and a drink after another HS Thompson invents a civil war with itself, and if at the Chronicles of rum are exhilarated and over the top, and slowly after hangover hangover reveals a fund conscious bitterness. It 'just as he drowned in alcohol and dissolving HS Thompson reveals himself a great writer. He has only a minimum wage of lucidity to realize he had crossed a dangerous threshold: "I felt to see something crawling on the ceiling and the off calling me by name. I started to shake and sweat, then started the frenzy. " Every night becomes increasingly threatening (one of many party ends with a rape), the money disappear in traffic jams and keep rum, if only for another day, the dissolute lifestyle becomes a nightmare. The Chronicles of rum show, step by step diary of a failure. The escalation is emblematic. Before HS Thompson begins to have a vague sense of chaos in which one finds: "I felt the dark foreboding that life we \u200b\u200bused to be a lost cause, that we do not do other than acting, taking the piss each other senseless odyssey. " A moment later, is convinced that "we all go to the same places of fucking, fucking do the same things people have done for fifty years, and expect something to happen." The wait is an empty promise because "the sweet illusions that make us carry on hold only up to a certain extent" and HS Thompson confesses to have arrived at the bottom: "If this was the absolute freedom then I had tasted in abundance." Dispelling it, often, HS Thompson and other write "Fear and Loathing," but in his Chronicles rum (we are only in 1959) is already the essence of a great, crazy and brilliant outsider.
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