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Hunter S Thompson isn't a person, he's a phenomenon.

"Love is like a parasite in his heart, nourishing a hateful existence on his life's blood; it absorbed his existence so intensely that he could take pleasure in nothing else."

the function of dreams

I’m reading this volume from the last page, working my way in the beginning. Kafka’s characters employ a detached melancholy, often espousing muted poignance in fleeting little moments that leaves one mystified. That’s the premature impression I get anyway. Vladimir Nabokov must be referring to Kafka when he said “Isn’t a writer the one who bothers with trifles?”

currently on Les Monstres sacrés. The past plays-- Orphee and Antigone were all bound by a mixed sense of magical realism and dream imagery while Les Parents terribles was an amusingly candid piece of contemporary drama. Everything I've read was enjoyable thus far.