William S. Burroughs reading from Naked Lunch

I was first exposed to William S. Burroughs years ago. I bought Naked Lunch on a whim. Right before heading off to Mexico. While I was there, the book was one of the only things that spoke English. I found the writing wild, hilarious, and especially perverted … the worlds described are twisted and sick.

(In Mexico, people would see me reading and it’d go like: “what’r ya readin? oh yeah, Will Burroughs? yeah, Naked Lunch? yeah, real good book.” (Probably something to do with that psychedelic Cronenberg adaptation.) So I developed a test: I’d ask them what they thought about the book. If they didn’t cringe or giggle while answering I’d know they were lying. (Naked Lunch contains the word “ejaculation” about five-billion times.))

Sometimes his writing is dense, and serious. Other times it reads so smoothly that it appears to be simple. Some people read his work and see nothing but shock-value gimmicks. Others read it and think it’s the greatest thing. I’ve seen just about every possible opinion there is on Burroughs and his writing. (And there are about as many opinions on his stuff as there are Burroughs fans or haters.) But there’s one thing I think most people could agree on. His work is unique.

William S. Burroughs, the man, interests me. He’s funny. He’s smart. But, at the same time, there are things about him that bug me. (The first time I heard Burroughs’ spoken word, with that post-punk noise shit in the background, I cringed big time.) Everything about him is strange. Almost alien. Like from another century. He wears full-blown suits all of the time. He’s got a comb over. And he’s always had extremely dorky hair. His manner is stone-faced and guarded. His friends describe him like that. Withdrawn and distant. (I’m sure it’s at least partly due to his lifelong opiate use. Anyone who’s ever dabbled in that shit knows the blissful feeling of total withdrawal. Not-giving-a-fuck-about-anything is too simple of a description. It’s deeper. Like your brain losing its ability to make the connections that lead to giving-a-fuck. It’s total silence, for once.)

“William would make a great prisoner, ya know? I mean, in solitary.”
- James Grauerholz, Burroughs’ assistant and literary executor

The vibe of his work is something I’ve always loved. It’s unmatched: part slapstick, part serious. Part high-class, part pornographic. Those are the reasons why his work was controversial. His writing is extremely foul and profane. It depicts more sex, murder, and drug use than anything “literary” at the time. But it was groundbreaking. Partly because of its disregard for plot and formalities. (Again, opiates.) Partly for its critique of America and civilization in general.

His use of narration is interesting and entertaining. Much of the book is written in this hilarious, corny detective voice that sounds like it came from some pulp, secret-agent-detective novel. You can imagine him writing the thing. High-as-fuck, with a smirk on his face. At other times he’s surreal and strung-out. Poetic like his lifelong-friend Allen Ginsberg … but with a chaotic mix of penises, assholes, and violence for subject matter.

This documentary reveals a much different Burroughs than one might expect. He’s serious. Only occasionally letting some of his sick humor out. He’s organized, neat, and clean. He’s on a methadone maintenance program, not heroin. He’s frail instead of thin, like he was. His voice is thin, wiry, and high-pitched. All nasal, no throat. Basically, he sounds like a geezer. (And, from what I can tell, he’s always sounded like one.)

You discover very little about Burroughs, from Burroughs. He seems to prefer droning monologues to clear speech. But luckily, Burroughs’ friends and family do a lot of the explaining. They provide the necessary context and commentary that is missing from Burroughs’ dry facts, robotic speeches, and comedy routines. In the end, the documentary gives us many different views of Burroughs as an author, all of which help us understand his weird life and weird books.

William S. Burroughs – Arena (1997)

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(Note: This is some of the last footage of Ginsberg and Burroughs. Allen Ginsberg died shortly after this was recorded. Four months later, Burroughs died. This aired two weeks after Burroughs’ death.)