The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test

The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test

by Tom Wolfe

NOOK BookFirst Edition (eBook - First Edition)

$9.99 View All Available Formats & Editions

Available on Compatible NOOK Devices and the free NOOK Apps.
WANT A NOOK?  Explore Now


Tom Wolfe's The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test ushered in an era of New Journalism. "An American classic" (Newsweek) that defined a generation. "An astonishing book" (The New York Times Book Review) and an unflinching portrait of Ken Kesey, his Merry Pranksters, LSD, and the 1960s.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781429961141
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux
Publication date: 08/19/2008
Sold by: Macmillan
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 384
Sales rank: 19,439
File size: 566 KB

About the Author

Tom Wolfe (1930-2018) was one of the founders of the New Journalism movement and the author of such contemporary classics as The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, The Right Stuff, and Radical Chic&Mau-Mauing the Flak Catchers, as well as the novels The Bonfire of the Vanities, A Man in Full, and I Am Charlotte Simmons. As a reporter, he wrote articles for The Washington Post, the New York Herald Tribune, Esquire, and New York magazine, and is credited with coining the term, “The Me Decade.”

Among his many honors, Tom was awarded the National Book Award, the John Dos Passos Award, the Washington Irving Medal for Literary Excellence, the National Humanities Medal, and the National Book Foundation Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters.

A native of Richmond, Virginia, he earned his B.A. at Washington and Lee University, graduating cum laude, and a Ph.D. in American studies at Yale. He lived in New York City.

Tom Wolfe (1930-2018) was one of the founders of the New Journalism movement and the author of such contemporary classics as The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, The Right Stuff, and Radical Chic&Mau-Mauing the Flak Catchers, as well as the novels The Bonfire of the Vanities, A Man in Full, and I Am Charlotte Simmons. As a reporter, he wrote articles for The Washington Post, the New York Herald Tribune, Esquire, and New York magazine, and is credited with coining the term, “The Me Decade.”

Among his many honors, Tom was awarded the National Book Award, the John Dos Passos Award, the Washington Irving Medal for Literary Excellence, the National Humanities Medal, and National Book Foundation Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters.

A native of Richmond, Virginia, he earned his B.A. at Washington and Lee University, graduating cum laude, and a Ph.D. in American studies at Yale. He lived in New York City.


New York, New York

Date of Birth:

March 2, 1931

Place of Birth:

Richmond, Virginia


B.A. (cum laude), Washington and Lee University, 1951; Ph.D. in American Studies, Yale University, 1957

Read an Excerpt

The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test

By Tom Wolfe


Copyright © 1968 Tom Wolfe
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-6114-1


Black Shiny FBI Shoes

THAT'S GOOD THINKING THERE, COOL BREEZE. COOL BREEZE is a kid with three or four days' beard sitting next to me on the stamped metal bottom of the open back part of a pickup truck. Bouncing along. Dipping and rising and rolling on these rotten springs like a boat. Out the back of the truck the city of San Francisco is bouncing down the hill, all those endless staggers of bay windows, slums with a view, bouncing and streaming down the hill. One after another, electric signs with neon martini glasses lit up on them, the San Francisco symbol of "bar" — thousands of neon-magenta martini glasses bouncing and streaming down the hill, and beneath them hundreds, thousands of people wheeling around to look at this freaking crazed truck we're in, their white faces erupting from their lapels like marshmallows — streaming and bouncing down the hill — and God knows they've got plenty to look at.

That's why it strikes me as funny when Cool Breeze says very seriously over the whole roar of the thing, "I don't know — when Kesey gets out I don't know if I can come around the Warehouse."

"Why not?"

"Well, like the cops are going to be coming around like all feisty, and I'm on probation, so I don't know."

Well, that's good thinking there, Cool Breeze. Don't rouse the bastids. Lie low — like right now. Right now Cool Breeze is so terrified of the law he is sitting up in plain view of thousands of already startled citizens wearing some kind of Seven Dwarfs Black Forest gnome's hat covered in feathers and fluorescent colors. Kneeling in the truck, facing us, also in plain view, is a half-Ottawa Indian girl named Lois Jennings, with her head thrown back and a radiant look on her face. Also a blazing silver disk in the middle of her forehead alternately exploding with light when the sun hits it or sending off rainbows from the defraction lines in it. And, oh yeah, there's a long-barreled Colt .45 revolver in her hand, only nobody on the street can tell it's a cap pistol as she pegs away, kheeew, kheeew, at the erupting marshmallow faces like Debra Paget in ... in ...

— Kesey's coming out of jail!

Two more things they are looking at out there are a sign on the rear bumper reading "Custer Died for Your Sins" and, at the wheel, Lois's enamorado Stewart Brand, a thin blond guy with a blazing disk on his forehead too, and a whole necktie made of Indian beads. No shirt, however, just an Indian bead necktie on bare skin and a white butcher's coat with medals from the King of Sweden on it.

Here comes a beautiful one, attaché case and all, the day-is-done resentful look and the ... shoes — how they shine! — and what the hell are these beatnik ninnies — and Lois plugs him in the old marshmallow and he goes streaming and bouncing down the hill ...

And the truck heaves and billows, blazing silver red and Day-Glo, and I doubt seriously, Cool Breeze, that there is a single cop in all of San Francisco today who does not know that this crazed vehicle is a guerrilla patrol from the dread LSD.

The cops now know the whole scene, even the costumes, the jesuschrist strung-out hair, Indian beads, Indian headbands, donkey beads, temple bells, amulets, mandalas, god's-eyes, fluorescent vests, unicorn horns, Errol Flynn dueling shirts — but they still don't know about the shoes. The heads have a thing about shoes. The worst are shiny black shoes with shoelaces in them. The hierarchy ascends from there, although practically all lowcut shoes are unhip, from there on up to the boots the heads like, light, fanciful boots, English boots of the mod variety, if that is all they can get, but better something like hand-tooled Mexican boots with Caliente Dude Triple A toes on them. So see the FBI — black — shiny — laced up — FBI shoes — when the FBI finally grabbed Kesey —

There is another girl in the back of the truck, a dark little girl with thick black hair, called Black Maria. She looks Mexican, but she says to me in straight soft Californian:

"When is your birthday?"

"March 2."

"Pisces," she says. And then: "I would never take you for a Pisces."


"You seem too ... solid for a Pisces."

But I know she means stolid. I am beginning to feel stolid. Back in New York City, Black Maria, I tell you, I am even known as something of a dude. But somehow a blue silk blazer and a big tie with clowns on it and ... a ... pair of shiny lowcut black shoes don't set them all to doing the Varsity Rag in the head world in San Francisco. Lois picks off the marshmallows one by one; Cool Breeze ascends into the innards of his gnome's hat; Black Maria, a Scorpio herself, rummages through the Zodiac; Stewart Brand winds it through the streets; paillettes explode — and this is nothing special, just the usual, the usual in the head world of San Francisco, just a little routine messing up the minds of the citizenry en route, nothing more than psyche food for beautiful people, while giving some guy from New York a lift to the Warehouse to wait for the Chief, Ken Kesey, who is getting out of jail.

ABOUT ALL I KNEW ABOUT KESEY AT THAT POINT WAS THAT HE was a highly regarded 31-year-old novelist and in a lot of trouble over drugs. He wrote One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest (1962), which was made into a play in 1963, and Sometimes a Great Notion (1964). He was always included with Philip Roth and Joseph Heller and Bruce Jay Friedman and a couple of others as one of the young novelists who might go all the way. Then he was arrested twice for possession of marijuana, in April of 1965 and January of 1966, and fled to Mexico rather than risk a stiff sentence. It looked like as much as five years, as a second offender. One day I happened to get hold of some letters Kesey wrote from Mexico to his friend Larry McMurtry, who wrote Horseman, Pass By, from which the movie Hud was made. They were wild and ironic, written like a cross between William Burroughs and George Ade, telling of hideouts, disguises, paranoia, fleeing from cops, smoking joints and seeking satori in the Rat lands of Mexico. There was one passage written George Ade — fashion in the third person as a parody of what the straight world back there in the U.S.A. must think of him now:

"In short, this young, handsome, successful, happily-married-three-lovely-children father was a fear-crazed dope fiend in flight to avoid prosecution on three felonies and god knows how many misdemeanors and seeking at the same time to sculpt a new satori from an old surf — in even shorter, mad as a hatter.

"Once an athlete so valued he had been given the job of calling signals from the line and risen into contention for the nationwide amateur wrestling crown, now he didn't know if he could do a dozen pushups. Once possessor of a phenomenal bank account and money waving from every hand, now it was all his poor wife could do to scrape together eight dollars to send as getaway money to Mexico. But a few years previous he had been listed in Who's Who and asked to speak at such auspicious gatherings as the Wellesley Club in Dah-la and now they wouldn't even allow him to speak at a VDC [Vietnam Day Committee] gathering. What was it that had brought a man so high of promise to so low a state in so short a time? Well, the answer can be found in just one short word, my friends, in just one all-well-used syllable:


"And while it may be claimed by some of the addled advocates of these chemicals that our hero is known to have indulged in drugs before his literary success, we must point out that there was evidence of his literary prowess well before the advent of the so-called psychedelic into his life but no evidence at all of any of the lunatic thinking that we find thereafter!"

To which he added:

"(oh yea, the wind hums
time ago — time ago —
the rafter drums and the walls see
... and there's a door to that bird
in the sa-a-a-apling sky
time ago by —
Oh yeah the surf giggles time ago time ago
of under things killed when
bad was banished and all the
doors to the birds vanished
time ago then.)"

I got the idea of going to Mexico and trying to find him and do a story on Young Novelist Real-Life Fugitive. I started asking around about where he might be in Mexico. Everybody on the hip circuit in New York knew for certain. It seemed to be the thing to know this summer. He is in Puerto Vallarta. He is in Ajijic. He is in Oaxaca. He is in San Miguel de Allende. He is in Paraguay. He just took a steamboat from Mexico to Canada. And everyone knew for certain.

I was still asking around when Kesey sneaked back into the U.S. in October and the FBI caught up with him on the Bayshore freeway south of San Francisco. An agent chased him down an embankment and caught him and Kesey was in jail. So I flew to San Francisco. I went straight to the San Mateo County jail in Redwood City and the scene in the waiting room there was more like the stage door at the Music Box Theatre. It was full of cheerful anticipation. There was a young psychologist there, Jim Fadiman — Clifton Fadiman's nephew, it turned out — and Jim and his wife Dorothy were happily stuffing three I Ching coins into the spine of some interminable dense volume of Oriental mysticism and they asked me to get word to Kesey that the coins were in there. There was also a little round faced brunette named Marilyn who told me she used to be a teenie grouper hanging out with a rock 'n' roll group called The Wild Flowers but now she was mainly with Bobby Petersen. Bobby Petersen was not a musician. He was a saint, as nearly as I could make out. He was in jail down in Santa Cruz trying to fight a marijuana charge on the grounds that marijuana was a religious sacrament for him. I didn't figure out exactly why she was up here in the San Mateo jail waiting room instead except that it was like a stage door, as I said, with Kesey as the star who was still inside.

There was a slight hassle with the jailers over whether I was to get in to see him or not. The cops had nothing particularly to gain by letting me in. A reporter from New York — that just meant more publicity for this glorified beatnik. That was the line on Kesey. He was a glorified beatnik up on two dope charges, and why make a hero out of him. I must say that California has smooth cops. They all seem to be young, tall, crewcut, blond, with bleached blue eyes, like they just stepped out of a cigarette ad. Their jailhouses don't look like jailhouses, at least not the parts the public sees. They are all blond wood, fluorescent lights and filing-cabinet-tan metal, like the Civil Service exam room in a new Post Office building. The cops all speak soft Californian and are neat and correct as an ice cube. By the book; so they finally let me in to see Kesey during visiting hours. I had ten minutes. I waved goodbye to Marilyn and the Fadimans and the jolly scene downstairs and they took me up to the third floor in an elevator.

The elevator opened right onto a small visiting room. It was weird. Here was a lineup of four or five cubicles, like the isolation booths on the old TV quiz shows, each one with a thick plate-glass window and behind each window a prisoner in a prison blue workshirt. They were lined up like haddocks on ice. Outside each window ran a counter with a telephone on it. That's what you speak over in here. A couple of visitors are already hunched over the things. Then I pick out Kesey.

He is standing up with his arms folded over his chest and his eyes focused in the distance, i.e., the wall. He has thick wrists and big forearms, and the way he has them folded makes them look gigantic. He looks taller than he really is, maybe because of his neck. He has a big neck with a pair of sternocleido-mastoid muscles that rise up out of the prison workshirt like a couple of dock ropes. His jaw and chin are massive. He looks a little like Paul Newman, except that he is more muscular, has thicker skin, and he has tight blond curls boiling up around his head. His hair is almost gone on top, but somehow that goes all right with his big neck and general wrestler's build. Then he smiles slightly. It's curious, he doesn't have a line in his face. After all the chasing and hassling — he looks like the third week at the Sauna Spa; serene, as I say.

Then I pick up my telephone and he picks up his — and this is truly Modern Times. We are all of twenty-four inches apart, but there is a piece of plate glass as thick as a telephone directory between us. We might as well be in different continents, talking over Videophone. The telephones are very crackly and lo-fi, especially considering that they have a world of two feet to span. Naturally it was assumed that the police monitored every conversation. I wanted to ask him all about his fugitive days in Mexico. That was still the name of my story, Young Novelist Fugitive Eight Months in Mexico. But he could hardly go into that on this weird hookup, and besides, I had only ten minutes. I take out a notebook and start asking him — anything. There had been a piece in the paper about his saying it was time for the psychedelic movement to go "beyond acid," so I asked him about that. Then I started scribbling like mad, in shorthand, in the notebook. I could see his lips moving two feet away. His voice crackled over the telephone like it was coming from Brisbane. The whole thing was crazy. It seemed like calisthenics we were going through.

"It's my idea," he said, "that it's time to graduate from what has been going on, to something else. The psychedelic wave was happening six or eight months ago when I went to Mexico. It's been growing since then, but it hasn't been moving. I saw the same stuff when I got back as when I left. It was just bigger, that was all —" He talks in a soft voice with a country accent, almost a pure country accent, only crackling and rasping and cheese-grated over the two-foot hookup, talking about —

"— there's been no creativity," he is saying, "and I think my value has been to help create the next step. I don't think there will be any movement off the drug scene until there is something else to move to —"

— all in a plain country accent about something — well, to be frank, I didn't know what in the hell it was all about. Sometimes he spoke cryptically, in aphorisms. I told him I had heard he didn't intend to do any more writing. Why? I said.

"I'd rather be a lightning rod than a seismograph," he said.

He talked about something called the Acid Test and forms of expression in which there would be no separation between himself and the audience. It would be all one experience, with all the senses opened wide, words, music, lights, sounds, touch — lightning.

"You mean on the order of what Andy Warhol is doing?" I said.

... pause. "No offense," says Kesey, "but New York is about two years behind."

He said it very patiently, with a kind of country politeness, as if ... I don't want to be rude to you fellows from the City, but there's been things going on out here that you would never guess in your wildest million years, old buddy ...

THE TEN MINUTES WERE UP AND I WAS OUT OF THERE. I HAD gotten nothing, except my first brush with a strange phenomenon, that strange up-country charisma, the Kesey presence. I had nothing to do but kill time and hope Kesey would get out on bail somehow and I could talk to him and get the details on Novelist Fugitive in Mexico. This seemed like a very long shot at this time, because Kesey had two marijuana charges against him and had already jumped the country once.

So I rented a car and started making the rounds in San Francisco. Somehow my strongest memories of San Francisco are of me in a terrific rented sedan roaring up hills or down hills, sliding on and off the cable-car tracks. Slipping and sliding down to North Beach, the fabled North Beach, the old fatherland bohemia of the West Coast, always full of Big Daddy So-and-so and Costee Plusee and long-haired little Wasp and Jewish buds balling spade cats — and now North Beach was dying. North Beach was nothing but tit shows. In the famous Beat Generation HQ, the City Lights bookstore, Shig Murao, the Nipponese panjandrum of the place, sat glowering with his beard hanging down like those strands of furze and fern in an architect's drawing, drooping over the volumes of Kahlil Gibran by the cash register while Professional Budget Finance Dentists here for the convention browsed in search of the beatniks between tit shows. Everything was The Topless on North Beach, strippers with their breasts enlarged with injections of silicone emulsion.


Excerpted from The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test by Tom Wolfe. Copyright © 1968 Tom Wolfe. Excerpted by permission of Picador.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Table of Contents


Title Page,
Copyright Notice,
chapter I - Black Shiny FBI Shoes,
chapter II - The Bladder Totem,
chapter III - The Electric Suit,
chapter IV - What Do You Think of My Buddha?,
chapter V - The Rusky-Dusky Neon Dust,
chapter VI - The Bus,
chapter VII - Unauthorized Acid,
chapter VIII - Tootling the Multitudes,
chapter IX - The Crypt Trip,
chapter X - Dream Wars,
chapter XI - The Unspoken Thing,
chapter XII - The Bust,
chapter XIII - The Hell's Angels,
chapter XIV - A Miracle in Seven Days,
chapter XV - Cloud,
chapter XVI - The Frozen Jug Band,
chapter XVII - Departures,
chapter XVIII - Cosmo's Tasmanian Deviltry,
chapter XIX - The Trips Festival,
chapter XX - The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test,
chapter XXI - The Fugitive,
chapter XXII - ¡Diablo!,
chapter XXIII - The Red Tide,
chapter XXIV - The Mexican Bust,
chapter XXV - Secret Agent Number One,
chapter XXVI - The Cops and Robbers Game,
chapter XXVII - The Graduation,
Also by Tom Wolfe,
About the Author,
Author's Note,
Copyright Page,

Customer Reviews

Most Helpful Customer Reviews

See All Customer Reviews

The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test 4.2 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 88 reviews.
CameronWeber More than 1 year ago
The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test is a first-person dissertation of Ken Kesey and his band of Merry Pranksters. After Kesey wrote One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, he discovered the mystical experience of taking LSD (acid). In 1967, He and his Pranksters wanted to share this wonder with the rest of the world, so they bought a 1939 International Harvester school bus, painted it with day-glo, and they were off, traveling the country soaring on acid, speed, and grass. Tom Wolfe rode along on this journey, although he passed on the narcotics in order to bring his readers an accurate representation of their trip. His writing style is like nothing I have ever seen. He sometimes breaks into poems or uses large numbers of colons in succession. His thought process is all over the place and, at times, difficult to comprehend. Overall, I thought this was a GREAT book because it tells about how acid was introduced into mainstream America, and it shows an outsider's perspective of countless trips, highs, hallucinations, and lows. Anybody who has seen and liked The Beatles' Magical Mystery Tour would enjoy reading this book. They have similar themes, and The Beatles actually were inspired to make that movie because of the Merry Pranksters' adventure. I would rate The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test at 9.961 out of 10.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Wow! this is most definately my favorite Tom Wolfe book, and probably my favorite book ever! the merry pranksters remind me of a greatful dead-esque typical 60's hippie group. even people born after the time of 'the hippies' (they're still everywhere in Berkeley!) can appreciate the descriptive and unique style of writing posessed by Tom Wolfe.This book gives intellectual qualities to a people thought to be the most unintelligent of their time. Trippy.
fattrucker More than 1 year ago
Once in a great while there is a sociological convergence, a synergy, that leaves it's mark on the world. It often takes an outsider to recognize it, tie it all together and objectively capture it for posterity. Read Hunter Thompson's "Hell's Angels", Kerouacs "On the Road" and Wolfe's "Electric Koolaid Acid Test", and you have a front row seat to the end of the fifties and the early sixties, the end of the beat generation and the beginning of the hippy culture, psychedelic drugs, the Hell's Angels, Nixon, Tim Leary, Kerouac, Neil Cassiday, Allen Ginzberg, the Gratefull Dead, acid rock, and especially the late great Ken Kesey, with "acid test" being the most objective account of the three. It was a magic, almost mythical time. We will never be that free again. EKAT is the best of Wolfe's sociological explorations, largely due to it's larger than life subject matter.
americangirlDLM More than 1 year ago
Was it a good idea for intellectuals, social advocates, musicians and young trendoids to go "further" with LSD and other psychedelic drugs? No matter your opinion, if you are interested in the subject, Tom Wolfe's creative journalistic account will not leave you feeling misinformed. The bliss and the paranoia, the spiritual revelations and the mental breakdowns, Wolfe includes it all; you will understand the powerful pull of "the bus" and also those who feared it. Reading about the charismatic persona and edgy social experiments of Ken Kesey, you will feel as if you have not only encountered his character, you have gone into and through it and come out the other side. For atmosphere, you've got to listen to some psychedelic jamming. The Grateful Dead were the house band for Kesey's Merry Pranksters, but there were others. Wolfe pays tribute in style and voice to Jack Kerouac's "On the Road," which in its time was the touchstone for young intellectuals beginning the journey "further" from middle class comforts, into experiments with drugs and contemplation of new social and sexual mores. Charlie Parker was the master "house musician" for Kerouac's "mad ones".
Guest More than 1 year ago
I've been interested in the counter culture of the sixties since my early teens. I read this one about 3 years ago and finished it in 2 days. It's very funny and a real page turner. Kesey and Babbs were quintessential figures of their generation and this is a must read for any 60's lover.
Guest More than 1 year ago
a very well researched and organized piece of literature. extremely accessable and interesting. provides a front row seat to the excesses and travelings of Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters. a remarkable book, highly HIGHLY recomended... amazing style of storytelling.
Guest More than 1 year ago
As soon as I came across this book while searching for books about the betnik population, this book struck my eyes first. Not only was it a great and entertaining read, but also gave a lot of information about Ken Kesey and his revolution. I had no idea that Ken Kesey was such a prominant figure in the whole era of the hippies, but after reading this book I now see all that Kesey did to promote the betnik population. The book begins with Kesey leavnig jail, on account for arrests dealing with drug charges. I new Kesey as the authro of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's nest, and the book describes his rise to fame from that book. It then goes on to tell of the early beginning of LSD, which was developed by Timothy Leary. Kesey starts a group, which gains many followers that gain the name The Merry Pranksters. They go on a crazy bus trip all across the United States, live aimlessly in La Honda, meet with the Hell's Angles, get arrested numerous times, and finally begin partying with the Warlocks, who are later to be known as the Greatful Dead. The book sis a time capsule through the sixties, from the time acid was first tested, until finally when Kesey escapes to Mexico. Not only does Tom wolfe vividly describe the adventure, but also along the way describes the scene of the whole American population and how the people of the United States were affected by they new wave of hippies and betnik's during the sixties.
Guest More than 1 year ago
In EKAT, Tom Wolfe, with his superb, flowing dialogue, gives humanity to a group long since thought to have no minds at all. The Merry Pranksters, led by Ken Kesey (One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest, Sometimes A Great Notion), gave rise to a whole new generation of 60's culture, influenced by LSD, love and freedom. Wolfe, although not present for most of the events of the book, beautifully words the breakthroughs and heartbreaks that severely forward thinking can bring. Swirly and surreal, the Merry Pranksters are immortalized by Wolfe with a respect and understanding that few people can bring to the table. Knowing that the Grateful Dead, the Who and even the Beatles took ideas and examples from the Pranksters' lives, one would think by now the whole world would know them, but alas, there are only a sad few. If you want to know about the Magical Mystery Tour, The Magic Bus or Truckin' this first, it's a MUST!
Anonymous 25 days ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Just read it
KayPrime on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Wolfe highlights some interesting characters from the 60s including the Hell's Angels and Neal Cassady (whom Kerouac based his character Dean Moriaty from On The Road). If the book does nothing else, it has made me interested in becoming more familiar with Kesey's writing and long for a more relaxed drug policy to placate my (sanitized) inner hippie.The author uses a stream- of- consciousness style of writing which is very effective for getting the psychedelic topic of his book across. Unfortunately, by page 150 I was completely over the rambly and babbled details as well as the mostly immature shenanigans of the Pranksters. (And what was with Wolfe's repeated use of the racial epithet 'spade'?)This book reminds me loosely of HST's (who makes a brief appearance in the story) Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas. Having said that, I probably would have appreciated this book more had I read it when I first fell in love with HST's similar style of writing.
atomheart on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I understand what he was trying to do... and well, he did it. It was unlike anything I've ever read, and it 'tuned' me into that era like no other literary piece had, and I suppose, ever will. My only regret regarding the book, is that I couldn't get into the atmosphere of the book as I knew it was intended. I have never taken a psychedelic drug, and I suppose that is what held me back from connecting with the book as it was intended.
Norinja on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This book is an excellent look at history and a cultural movement that changed the world. Very interesting and well written.
flourishing on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Jeez, this was good, but I could hardly finish reading it because it was so incredibly vivid. Set my teeth on edge and my mind a-whirl, let me tell you. I don't think I've ever read another piece of fiction that was so evocative of what is essentially an indescribable state.
elissajanine on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This is just an amazing book. I'm rereading it now for the first time in 15 years, and I'm happy that time hasn't diminished it for me even though it's definitely a different reading experience this time around.
EmScape on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
At first, reading this book made my brain hurt. After a while, I grooved to the flow and grokked it fully. Actually, I would imagine I might understand this book better if I had ever taken LSD, which I haven't. Honestly, I wasn't even born when all of this happened. I wish I had been. It seems like an excellent scene. The writing begins semi-journalistically, but quickly devolves into a drug-soaked rambling that's just barely intelligible, until, as I said, you get into it. I mean, really into it. Wolf's words makes one *almost* able to understand what an acid trip might be like. It's an entirely different way of thinking. I think this book is essential to understanding the era.
BethKalb on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Read it because Angie brought it home from college, I was fascinated people actually lived this way, decided that's what I wanted to be when I grew up.
brakketh on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Really enjoyed this book though I found it very tough to plough through as Tom Wolfe attempted to convey the Merry Pranksters experience through the book. To my mind he was largely successful in this venture, to the extend that I started to feel scattered if I read it for too long.
Jamnjazzz on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
OK, is it Neal Cassidy or just me? The first time I read this book reminded me of the first time I read "On The Road", when I come upon Neal (Dean) it's as if the text gets shifted into 6th gear and I'm suddenly catapulted down the road at 100 mph with a handful of aphetamines in my system. This is an awsome cronicle of that most special time in our country in that most special place. Truly make you want to know "can you pass the acid test?"
bla2 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
A classic! Meant a lot to me while I read it and that's something to say about a book!
tony_landis on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I tackled this book Sunday morning and had to finish it up by midnight. The author successfully captured the birth and spread of a new way to experience conscienceless, while exposing similarities to mainstream religions. This book is of historic value to me as it clearly depicts an entire era that I previously had only caught dramatized glimpses of.
petrojoh on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Groovy. A journalistic approach to a time that denied journalistic conventions.
jbarklow on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
(150)This book was a very confusing story about the late '60s in San Francisco, CA. (Mostly the Haight Ashbury District)It's about how Ken Kesey returns from prison, and he tries to stop the pranksters from promoting LSD. Also, the story of how they ended up putting LSD into the Kool-Aid at a Dead concert. I wouldn't recommend this book to anyone with a small attention span. It also requires a lot of knowledge of that time, and takes a while to understand. I liked it, but decided that after more research i should re-read it and I would understand it more.
Whicker on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Incredible book, Wolfe at his best. Few authors can capture the state of euphoria with the written word; Wolfe did. Bringing the life of Ken Kesey into focus, the reader is taken on a journey otherwise overlooked.
asphaltjunkie on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Simply put, Wolfe was privy to the autumn of the beat movement as it transitioned into the free-love, experimentation era of hippie-dom in the 1960s. He captures the frenetic restlessness of the beatniks (most notably Neal Cassady) in a day-glo bus in a last gasp cross-country run. It's no 'On the Road,' but it's a good way to catch up with Kerouac's hero Dean Moriarty years on from his days with Sal Paradise.