To me, this is the kind of book one can read over and over again without getting tired of it. It has only adopted greater depth and relevance over time, and every rereading seems to evidence this. For better or for worse, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is the work that garnered Hunter S. Thompson, one of the most talented American writer-cum-journalists of recent memory, fame in the wider literary community. Still, Thompson, as with many other significant artists in history, was notorious for living to excess, and this fact often emerges through the boldly surrealistic style of Fear and Loathing.
Quentin loved trees, even when he was a young boy. They possessed a mystique, a universal charm, you could say, that always entranced him. In kindergarten he once played a tree for a play and refused to take off his costume for weeks afterward. He would even stand on street corners, still, not moving a muscle, for hours on end. People stared at him. Quentin’s family began to refer to him as “Quentin Tree”, a nickname he always loved. He never stopped loving it, even when people made fun of it. He would casually walk past everyone, never stopping to explain himself.