The dark underbelly of the counterculture, where weak saps go to Nam to make money as writers, smuggle three “kays” of “skag” (aka 3kg of heroine) back to the States to make money, and end up – shock horror – embedded in a web of crooked cops, weapons caches double-dealing, soulless hippies taking more synthetic drugs than there are stars in the night sky, perverted spiritual masters, Mexican wetbacks, and hired killers who are, to top it off, gay (which is clearly worse than being assassins). Etc. An entirely average novel, with no merits as writing or thriller. I can only assume it made KAM’s list because it told Americans in the early 1970s who they really were, man. Now, it can be utterly forgotten.
Where it came from: KAM’s bookshelf
Time and manner of reading: A few evening armchair reads and a morning lie-in
Where it went: Home
Reminds me of/that: Zeitgeist should just stick to its damned moment
Who I’d recommend it to: I wouldn’t
Also reading: Being Alive edited by Neil Astley; Swann’s Way by Marcel Proust; 142 Strand by Rosemary Ashton