I've loved Richard Brautigan's intruiging style since the early 1970's, so it was with a bittersweet wrenching in my gut that I read his final journalistic offering. Although offering up a few tidbits of sentence structure that "turn like something in the hand of a child," there was very little merit in this work, and it shows an unfortunate decline of imaginative style that seemed apparent in Brautigan's writings from the late 70's on. He seems worn out, lost, and without hope or any conclusive answers or even interesting ponderings about life's mysteries... and indeed, I think depression, drink, and despair was really gaining on him at this point. I still revere his originality, and his straightforward command of the English language and his sometimes comic observations, but I encourage readers to seek out Trout Fishing, In Watermelon Sugar, Revenge of the Lawn, and The Pill vs. to really get to know the artistry of this unique and personal writer.

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