The Joke’s Over: Bruised Memories: Gonzo, Hunter S. Thompson, and Me, by Ralph Steadman.
[rating:5/5]

Ralph Steadman recounts his days illustrating his adventures with Hunter Thompson. It’s very frank:

When I began this book I thought it was going to be a journey of pleasure and warm memories, but as I write I feel more of the icy winds of rejection that were probably there from the beginning. There is a point at which nothing was ever worth the effort, nothing given and nothing taken away. My involvement was nothing more than my own ambition. Quite by chance I became a part of this man’s life, more as an infection than a friend. I fooled myself that there was something in me that he found important. Actually, as time went by, he hated the very idea that something as putrid as a cartoon drawing could ever capture the essence of what it was he was trying to describe. But when I search deep inside myself, grasping at words like air, I believe he may have been right. There was no purpose in my involvement.

To me, Steadman’s work was vital.

Incidentally, the original poster subsequently disappeared – I presumed stolen by a gang of international art thieves. It was, in fact, stolen by Hunter who was often gripped by an insatiable kleptomania. He stole far more of my work than I realized from the offices of Rolling Stone, blaming Jann Wenner whenever something went missing. He did not realize that each time he committed such a felony, he stole a piece of my soul too.

Okay, the book is much more than this, but for some reason I’m left with all of these points. The artist screwed over by the writer, disrespected by the word people. Maybe it’s just me.

I am groaning as I write this piece, that I was systematically screwed over any part of this and other projects I was rightfully entitled to through the years. It was a time of thievery and personal ambition and it has lasted until after Hunter’s death. I simply did not realize that Hunter’s friendship was also a business agreement; he was wise and careful and had surrounded himself with lawyers… and guns and other people’s money. He was much more into deals than personal affection.

With all this said, Steadman remains a true friend to the end. The book isn’t all about Steadman’s treatment at the hands of Hunter.

In the eighties, after The Curse of Lono, Hunter became more circumspect about my involvement in anything to do with Gonzo, as thought the very presence of one of my drawings in a journalistic project of his own represented a serious threat to his domination over the world we had collectively created a decade earlier. My drawings were becoming baggage, best dropped off in some bushy scrub along the trail, halfway across a wilderness, or in a dirty pond along with old bicycle frames and rubber tyres. Writers are like that. Whether they like it or not, whether they attempt to consider themselves actual members of the human race, or chosen spokesmen for life’s underprivileged, winners of prizes or rich and curious seats of learning, I had, as far as he was concerned, exhausted my usefulness. But in his moments of quiet loneliness, I was still there as an integral part of the Gonzo spirit. The poor bastard was as alone as the rest of us when it came to filling a void with what most of us believe the creative spirit to be. These are mere speculations, but even as I write now, in my own chosen loneliness, missing the man like a lost leg, I realize our collaboration was one of those venal necessities I cannot brush aside, and neigther could he.

The Joke’s Over: Bruised Memories: Gonzo, Hunter S. Thompson, and Me, by Ralph Steadman.
[rating:5/5]

When a Crocodile Eats the Sun: A Memoir of Africa, by Peter Godwin.
[rating:5/5]

Godwin’s story traces his family’s history along with the decay of his native Zimbabwe.

Nearly a thousand white-owned farms have now been invaded by the wovits, but the CFU has told their members to sit tight while they negotiate with Mugabe. The CFU has warned the farmers that any of them named in the media will risk being singled out for reprisals by the government. And the wovits themselves are very hostile to strangers coming onto the farms, especially anyone suspected of being from the media. Photographing farmers is hugely problematic; photographing war vets is almost suicidal. Nonetheless, the New York Times has sent Antonin Kratochvil, a Czech photographer, now a New York resident, to cover this story with me.

Antonin cuts an unlikely figure here. Corpulent and bearded, he speaks American English with a Czech accent. He usually has a cheroot in the side of his mouth and he laughs constantly, a booming rumble that rises from his belly. He is a tropical Santa, able to such the tension from a room. His very strangeness makes him a perfect choice. I collect him from the Meikles Hotel, where he stands waiting on the lion paw-print carpet in his sleeveless khaki camera jacket, his little Leica over one shoulder.

Godwin makes several trips back to Zimbabwe as its economy collapses. Journalists have been banned:

On the drive from the airport I notice new graffiti, “Exodus 20:17,” scrawled on various walls along the way. At a red traffic light a group of ragged, feral children swarm around the car with cupped palms. One small boy comes up to my closed window. When I don’t open it, he wiped his hand across his runny nose and writes on the glass in yellow snot: “help me.”

One more quote with Kratochvil:

At the entrance to their camp I had noticed a fresh grave, and now I ask for a closer look. There is a large cross at the ehad of the grave, and at its base is arranged and MDC T-shirt with a hole burned out where the wearer’s heart would be. One a piece of iron drum they have scrawled the name of the grave’s symbolic occupant, the opposition leader: “Morgan Tsvangirai, MDC.” Above his name they have painted their rallying call: “War Vets Back to War!” Underneath it is written “He will kill the people.”

“MDC, it means Morgan Don’t Come…again!” yells Commander Satan, and he and Muroyi and other men who have been filtering in pound their feet on the grave as they begin to dance around it. So far, Antonin has not revealed his camera, but now I ask if he might photograph the grave, and Satan agrees. But just as Antonin lifts his Leica, Satan suddenly shouts, “Wait! Wait!” Antonin whips down the camera, fearing some sudden irrational countermand, and Satan dashes away. Seconds later, he returns with a broad-brimmed felt hat on his head. Around its crown is a leopard skin band and a large label that reads “The mighty denim VOLO- king of all jeans- designed in Korea.”

Satisfied now with his attire, Comrade Satan strikes a pose at the graveside looking suitably fierce, clenching his fist to the skies.

“Now,” he says to Antonin, “I am ready. You can shoot me.”

When a Crocodile Eats the Sun: A Memoir of Africa, by Peter Godwin.
[rating:5/5]