“I can feel the heat closing in, feel them out there making their moves.” So starts “Naked Lunch,” the touchstone novel by William S. Burroughs. That hardboiled riff, spoken by a junkie on the run, introduces a mélange of “episodes, misfortunes, and adventures,” which, the author said, have “no real plot, no beginning, no end.” It is worth recalling on the occasion of “Call Me Burroughs” (Twelve), a biography by Barry Miles, an English author of books on popular culture, including several on the Beats. “I can feel the heat” sounded a new, jolting note in American letters, like Allen Ginsberg’s “I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness,” or, for that matter, like T. S. Eliot’s “April is the cruellest month.” (Ginsberg was a close friend; Eliot hailed from Burroughs’s home town of St. Louis and his poetry influenced Burroughs’s style.) In Burroughs’s case, that note was the voice of an outlaw revelling in wickedness. It bragged of occult power: “I can feel,” rather than “I feel.” He always wrote in tones of spooky authority—a comic effect, given that most of his characters are, in addition to being gaudily depraved, more or less conspicuously insane.
“Naked Lunch” is less a novel than a grab bag of friskily obscene comedy routines—least forgettably, an operating-room Grand Guignol conducted by an insouciant quack, Dr. Benway. “Well, it’s all in a day’s work,” Benway says, with a sigh, after a patient fails to survive heart massage with a toilet plunger. Some early reviewers spluttered in horror. Charles Poore, in the Times, calmed down just enough to be forthright in his closing line: “I advise avoiding the book.” “Naked Lunch” was five years in the writing and editing, mostly in Tangier, and aided by friends, including Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac. It first appeared in 1959, in Paris, as “The Naked Lunch” (with the definite article), in an Olympia Press paperback edition, in company with “Lolita,” “The Ginger Man,” and “Sexus.” Its plain green-and-black cover, like the covers of those books, bore the alluring caveat “Not to be sold in U.S.A. or U.K.” (A first edition can be yours, from one online bookseller, for twenty thousand dollars.) The same year, Big Table, a Chicago literary magazine, printed an excerpt, and was barred from the mails by the U.S. Postal Service. Fears of suppression delayed a stateside publication of the book until 1962, when Grove Press brought out an expanded and revised edition. It sold so well that Grove didn’t issue a paperback until 1966.
As late as 1965, however, a Boston court confirmed a local ban, despite testimony from Norman Mailer arguing the book’s literary merit. (Another supporter was Mary McCarthy, who, in the New York Review of Books, praised Burroughs’s “crankish courage” and compared “Naked Lunch” to “a worm that you can chop up into sections each of which wriggles off as an independent worm. Or a nine-lived cat. Or a cancer.”) A year later, the Massachusetts Supreme Court reversed the ban, on the ground of “redeeming social value,” a wobbly legal standard in censorship cases then and after. Thus anointed, Burroughs’s ragged masterpiece brought to social notice themes of drug use, homosexuality, hyperbolic violence, and anti-authoritarian paranoia. Those temerities and his disarmingly starchy public mien—he was ever the gent, dressed in suits, with patrician manners and a sepulchral, Missouri-bred and foreign-seasoned voice—assured him a celebrity status that is apt to flare anew whenever another cohort of properly disaffected young readers discovers him. The centenary of Burroughs’s birth, on February 5th, promises much organized attention; an excellent documentary by Howard Brookner, “Burroughs: The Movie” (1983), is about to be re-released.
Contrary to Kerouac’s mythmaking portrayal of him—as Old Bull Lee, in “On the Road”—Burroughs was not a wealthy heir, although his parents paid him an allowance until he was fifty. His namesake grandfather, William Seward Burroughs, perfected the adding machine and left his four children blocks of stock in what later became the Burroughs Corporation. His son Mortimer—the father of William and another, older son—sold his remaining share, shortly before the 1929 crash, for two hundred and seventy-six thousand dollars. Mortimer’s wife, born Laura Lee, never ceased to dote on William; Mortimer deferred to her.
Burroughs started writing at the age of eight, imitating adventure and crime stories. He attended a John Dewey-influenced progressive elementary school in St. Louis and played on the banks of the nearby, sewage-polluted River des Peres. Miles quotes him recalling, in a nice example of his gloatingly dire adjectival style, “During the summer months the smell of shit and coal gas permeated the city, bubbling up from the river’s murky depths to cover the oily iridescent surface with miasmal mists.” When Burroughs was fourteen, some chemicals he was tinkering with exploded, severely injuring his hand; treatment for the pain alerted him to the charms of morphine. He then spent two unhappy years at the exclusive Los Alamos Ranch School for boys, in New Mexico, memories of which informed his late novel “The Wild Boys” and other fantasies of all-male societies.
Burroughs was a brilliant student, graduating from Harvard with honors, in English, in 1936. He sojourned often in Europe; in Vienna, he briefly studied medicine and frequented the gay demimonde. He had become aware at puberty of an attraction to boys, and had been so embarrassed by a diary he kept of a futile passion for a fellow-student that he destroyed it and stopped writing anything not school-required for several years. Later, in psychoanalysis, he traced his sexual anxiety to a repressed memory: when he was four years old, his nanny forced him to perform oral sex on her boyfriend. The tumultuous experience of having his first serious boyfriend—in New York, in 1940—triggered what he laconically called a “Van Gogh kick”: he cut off the end joint of his left pinkie.
After a short hitch in the Army, in 1942, Burroughs received a psychiatric discharge. He then worked briefly as a private detective, in Chicago, where, however, he enjoyed his longest period of regular employment—nine months—as a pest exterminator. His delectable memoir of the job, “Exterminator!,” the title story of a collection published in 1973, employs a tone, typical of him, that begs to be called bleak nostalgia: “From a great distance I see a cool remote naborhood blue windy day in April sun cold on your exterminator there climbing the grey wooden outside stairs.”
The creation story of the Beats is by now literary boilerplate. Burroughs moved to New York in 1943, along with David Kammerer, a childhood friend who had travelled with him in Europe, and Lucien Carr, an angelically handsome Columbia University student whom Kammerer was stalking. Ginsberg, a fellow-student, was enthralled by Carr, and later dedicated “Howl” to him. Kerouac, who had dropped out of Columbia and served in the Navy, returned to the neighborhood in 1944. With Carr as the catalyst, and Burroughs, whom Kerouac goaded to resume writing, a charismatic presence, the Beat fellowship was complete.
Carr ended Kammerer’s pursuit of him late on the night of August 13, 1944, by stabbing him and dumping his body in the Hudson River. (The new movie “Kill Your Darlings” tells the tale in only somewhat embellished fashion.) Burroughs then replaced Carr as the group’s mentor. According to Miles, Kerouac and Ginsberg didn’t yet know that Burroughs was gay, and played matchmaker by introducing him to Joan Vollmer, an erudite, twice-married free spirit with a baby daughter, Julie, of uncertain paternity. Burroughs and Vollmer became inseparable and, they believed, telepathic soul mates, but he continued to have sexual encounters with men. In 1946, he started on heroin. (An uncle, Horace Burroughs, whom he idealized but never met, was a morphine addict who committed suicide in 1915, when the drug was legally restricted.) Vollmer favored Benzedrine.
Postwar New York updated Burroughs’s trove of criminal argot. He saw a lot of Herbert Huncke, a junkie and a jack-of-all-scams—whom Ginsberg called “the basic originator of the ethos of Beat and the conceptions of Beat and Square”—and other habitués of Times Square, whose doppelgängers roam the fiction that he had not yet begun to write. In 1946, Vollmer became pregnant. Burroughs, who could be startlingly moralistic, abhorred abortion; and so a son, Billy, joined the family. Envisioning himself as a gentleman farmer, Burroughs had acquired a spread in East Texas, where he cultivated marijuana, though not very well. He drove a harvest to New York with Kerouac’s “On the Road” icon, Neal Cassady—whom he disdained as, in Miles’s words, “a cheap con man”—but it was too green to turn a profit. After a drug bust in New Orleans, Burroughs jumped bail and settled in Mexico City. For three years, he took drugs, drank, picked up boys, hosted friends, and cut a sorry figure as a father. (With Vollmer also drinking heavily, the children’s lot was grim.) A Mexican scholar of the Beats, Jorge García-Robles, details the louche milieu in another new book, “The Stray Bullet: William S. Burroughs in Mexico” (Minnesota). He writes that Burroughs found the country “grotesque, sordid, and malodorous, but he liked it.”
During those years, Burroughs also wrote his first book, “Junky.” A pulp paperback published in 1953, under the pen name William Lee, it recounts his adventures through underworlds from New York to Mexico City. It features terse, crackling reportage, with echoes of Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler. The narrator’s first meeting with “Herman” (a pseudonym for Huncke) isn’t auspicious: “Waves of hostility and suspicion flowed out from his large brown eyes like some sort of television broadcast.” “Junky” attracted no critical notice. Burroughs wrote two other books in the early fifties that weren’t published until after “Naked Lunch.” “Queer”—centering, in Mexico City, on one of his arduous opiate withdrawals and a frustrating romance with a young man—saw print only in 1985. The most emotional work in a generally icy œuvre, it was written around the time, in 1951, of the most notorious event in Burroughs’s life: his fatal shooting of Vollmer, in a drunken game of “William Tell.”
García-Robles and Miles agree in their accounts of Vollmer’s death. At a friend’s apartment, she balanced a glass on her head, at Burroughs’s behest. He had contracted a lifelong mania for guns from duck-hunting excursions with his father, and was never unarmed if he could help it. He fired a pistol from about nine feet away. The bullet struck Vollmer in the forehead, at the hairline. She was twenty-eight. He was devastated, but readily parroted a story supplied by his lawyer, a flamboyant character named Bernabé Jurado: the gun went off accidentally. Released on bail, Burroughs might have faced trial had not Jurado, in a fit of road rage, shot a socially prominent young man and, when his victim died of septicemia, fled the country. Burroughs did the same, and a Mexican court convicted him in absentia of manslaughter, sentencing him to two years. In the introduction to “Queer,” Burroughs disparages his earlier work and adds, “I am forced to the appalling conclusion that I would never have become a writer but for Joan’s death,” because it initiated a spiritual “lifelong struggle, in which I have had no choice except to write my way out.” García-Robles avidly endorses this indeed appalling consolation, casting Vollmer as a sainted martyr to literature.
Miles relates that Burroughs had told Carr, after he killed Kammerer, “You shouldn’t blame yourself at all, because he asked for it, he demanded it.” Some of Burroughs’s friends, including Ginsberg, opted for an analogous understanding of Vollmer’s death as an indirect suicide, which she had willed to happen. Burroughs’s craving for exculpation eventually settled on the certainty that an “Ugly Spirit” had deflected his aim. As a child, Burroughs had been infused with superstitions by his mother and by the family’s Irish maid, and all his life he believed fervently in almost anything except conventional religion: telepathy, demons, alien abductions, and all manner of magic, including crystal-ball prophecy and efficacious curses. For several years in the nineteen-sixties, he enthusiastically espoused Scientology, in which he attained the lofty rank of “Clear,” before being excommunicated for questioning the organization’s Draconian discipline. And he furnished any place he lived in for long with an “orgone accumulator”—the metal-lined wooden booth invented by the rogue psychoanalyst Wilhelm Reich for capturing and imparting cosmic energy. Miles begins “Call Me Burroughs” with a scene of a sweat-lodge ceremony conducted by a Navajo shaman to finally expel the Ugly Spirit, in Kansas, in 1992. The heat and smoke caused Burroughs to ask to truncate the proceedings.
Vollmer’s parents took Julie into their home, in Albany, and she dropped out of her stepfather’s life. Burroughs sent Billy to be raised by Laura and Mortimer, in St. Louis, and joined them, in 1952, after they moved to Palm Beach, Florida. But he didn’t stay long; he set out to work on his third book, “The Yage Letters,” a quest through the jungles of Colombia for a fabled hallucinogen that, he had written in the last sentence of “Junky,” “may be the final fix.” He found and duly lauded the drug, but the journey seems its own reward, making for fine low-down travel writing. He needs a motorboat to take him upriver:
Sure you think it’s romantic at first but wait til you sit there five days onna sore ass sleeping in Indian shacks and eating hoka and some hunka nameless meat like the smoked pancreas of a two-toed sloth and all night you hear them fiddle-fucking with the motor—they got it bolted to the porch—“buuuuurt spluuuu . . . ut . . . spluuuu . . . ut,” and you can’t sleep hearing the motor start and die all night and then it starts to rain. Tomorrow the river will be higher.
The book wasn’t published until 1963. In the meantime, two volumes of a trilogy, “The Soft Machine” and “The Ticket That Exploded,” came out, soon followed by the third, “Nova Express.” These were written largely in London and Paris, between trips to Tangier, where Burroughs had lived for several years, starting in 1954. They advanced his claim (with some precedents in Dadaism and Surrealism) to literary innovation: the “cut-up” technique of assembling texts from scissored fragments of his own and others’ prose. The trilogy is a sort of fractured science fiction, telling of underground struggles against forces of “Control”—the shape-shifting, all-purpose bête noire of Burroughs’s world view. It is easier to read than, say, “Finnegans Wake,” but hard going between such bursts of dazzle as the “resistance message”
A second trilogy—“The Cities of the Red Night,” “The Place of Dead Roads,” and “The Western Lands”—published between 1981 and 1987, reverts to fairly normal narration, filled with scenes of sexual and military atrocity in a succession of mythic cities. Its heroes include Hassan-i Sabbah, the historical leader of a sometimes homicidal sect in eleventh- and twelfth-century Persia. “Nothing is true, everything is permitted,” Sabbah is supposed to have said (and was so quoted by Nietzsche). The prose is nimble and often ravishing, but marred by the author’s monotonous obsessions and gross tics—notably, a descent into ferocious misogyny, casting women as “the Sex Enemy.”
The biography, after its eventful start, becomes rather like an odyssey by subway in the confines of Burroughs’s self-absorption, with connecting stops in New York, where he lived, in the late nineteen-seventies, on the Bowery, in the locker room of a former Y.M.C.A., and, returning to the Midwest, in the congenial university town of Lawrence, Kansas, where he spent his last sixteen years, and where he died, of a heart attack, in 1997, at the age of eighty-three. Miles’s always efficient, often elegant prose eases the ride, but a reader’s attention may grow wan for want of sun. Most of the characters run to type: dissolute quasi-aristocratic friends, interchangeable boys, sycophants in steadily increasing numbers. Names parade, from Paul Bowles and Samuel Beckett (who, meeting Burroughs at a party in Paris, denounced the cut-up method as “plumbing”), through Mick Jagger and Andy Warhol, to Laurie Anderson and Kurt Cobain. Most prominent is Brion Gysin, a mediocre artist of calligraphic abstractions. Burroughs met him in Tangier, in 1955, and bonded with him in Paris at a dump in the Latin Quarter, known as the Beat Hotel, whose motherly owner adored literary wanderers.
Gysin and Burroughs deemed each other clairvoyant geniuses. They collaborated on cut-ups, extending the technique to audiotape, and foresaw commercial gold for Gysin’s “Dreamachine,” a gizmo that emitted flickering light to mildly hypnotic effect. It flopped. Burroughs took to making art himself, especially after Gysin’s death, in 1986: he created hundreds of pictures, on wood, by shooting at containers of paint. These have been widely exhibited and sold. They are terrible. Burroughs had no visual equivalent of the second-nature formality that buoys even his most chaotic writing.
Ginsberg comes off radiantly well in Miles’s telling, as a loyally forgiving friend. He tolerated Burroughs’s amatory passion for him, which developed in the fifties, as long as it lasted. Much of Burroughs’s best writing originated in letters to the poet, who took a guiding editorial hand in it. It was Ginsberg who hatched the title “Naked Lunch,” by a lucky mistake, having misread the phrase “naked lust” in a Burroughs manuscript. (I think of Ezra Pound’s editorial overhaul of “He Do the Police in Different Voices”—Eliot’s first title for “The Waste Land.”) Ginsberg effectively sacrificed his own literary development, which sagged after “Kaddish” (1961), to publicizing his friends and, of course, himself. Burroughs disparaged his puppylike attendance in Bob Dylan’s entourage. (Burroughs’s aloofness, like his obsession with mind control, reflected memories of a reviled uncle, Ivy Ledbetter Lee, a pioneering public-relations expert whose clients included John D. Rockefeller and the Nazi Party.) But Burroughs liked his own growing fame. He gave readings to full houses. Appearances on “Saturday Night Live,” in 1981, and in Gus Van Sant’s “Drugstore Cowboy,” in 1989, spread the popularity of his gentleman-junkie cool.
The biography’s most painful passages involve Billy, who both idolized and, for excellent reasons, resented Burroughs. What might you be like, had your father killed your mother and then abandoned you? In 1963, when Billy was sixteen, Burroughs, bowing to his parents’ insistence, briefly took charge of the troubled lad in Tangier. The main event of the visit was Billy’s introduction to drugs, condoned by Burroughs. In and out of hospitals and rehabs, Billy wrote three novels, of which the first, “Speed” (1970), detailing the ordeal of amphetamine addiction, showed literary promise. In 1976, father and son reunited at the Naropa Institute, in Boulder, where Ginsberg and other poets had initiated a program in experimental writing, and where Burroughs was teaching, with crotchety flair. Billy, who had received a liver transplant for cirrhosis, engaged in spectacular self-destruction. Miles writes, “Billy wanted Bill to witness the mess he was in; he was paying him back.” Billy died in 1981, at the age of thirty-three. Burroughs seemed to regret only that he had not sufficiently explained the Ugly Spirit to him. He responded to his son’s death by varying his current methadone habit with a return to heroin.
“Virtually all of Burroughs’s writing was done when he was high on something,” Miles writes. The drugs help account for the hollowness of his voices, which jabber, joke, and rant like ghosts in a cave. He had no voice of his own, but a fantastic ear and verbal recall. His prose is a palimpsest of echoes, ranging from Eliot’s “Preludes” and “Rhapsody on a Windy Night” (lines like “Midnight shakes the memory / As a madman shakes a dead geranium” are Burroughsian before the fact) to Raymond Chandler’s marmoreal wisecracks and Herbert Huncke’s jive. I suspect that few readers have made it all the way through the cut-up novels, but anyone dipping into them may come away humming phrases. His palpable influence on J. G. Ballard, William Gibson, and Kathy Acker is only the most obvious effect of the kind of inspiration that makes a young writer drop a book and grab a pen, wishing to emulate so sensational a sound. It’s a cold thrill. While always comic, Burroughs is rarely funny, unless you’re as tickled as he was by such recurrent delights as boys in orgasm as they are executed by hanging.
Some critics, including Miles, have tried to gussy up Burroughs’s antinomian morality as Swiftian satire. Burroughs, however, wages literary war not on perceptible real-world targets but against suggestions that anyone is responsible for anything. Though never cruel in his personal conduct, he was, in principle, exasperated with values of constraint. A little of “Nothing is true, everything is permitted” goes a long way for many readers, including me. But there’s no gainsaying a splendor as berserk as that of a Hieronymus Bosch painting. When you have read Burroughs, at whatever length suffices for you, one flank of your imagination of human possibility will be covered for good and all.
By Peter Schjeldahl
William Seward Burroughs nació el 5 de febrero de 1914 en San Luis, Missouri, en el seno de una familia acomodada del Medio Oeste norteamericano (era nieto del fundador de la compañía de máquinas de oficina Burroughs Adding Machine, y su madre estaba emparentada con el general Lee, jefe de los ejércitos confederados durante la Guerra de Secesión). De chico ya leía las obras de poetas malditos como Arthur Rimbaud, Charles Baudelaire y William Blake; luego estudió literatura inglesa en Harvard, medicina en Viena, antropología en México, viajó por América y Europa y continuó ampliando el universo de sus lecturas (Jung, Wilhelm Reich, Korzibsky, Joyce, Spengler, L. Ron Hubbard, Kafka, Nietzsche, Zoroastro, El Libro Tibetano de los Muertos, el Tao Te King, los Upanishads).
Pero el joven Burroughs estaba fascinado por las armas y el submundo del delito, y terminó rechazando una a una todas las convenciones de la clase a la que pertenecía. Cierto: por un buen tiempo vivió de la fortuna de sus padres, pero su vida y obra posteriores demuestran acabadamente que era bastante más que un mero burguesito rebelde hijo de mamá…
Tras ocuparse en varios oficios (periodista, exterminador de cucarachas) y un breve paso por el Ejército, se radicó en Nueva York, donde medró en la clandestinidad de los homosexuales y los drogadictos de la época. Hacia 1944 conoció allí a las futuras figuras de la Generación Beat como Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg y Lucien Carr, así como a quien luego sería su esposa, Joan Vollmer, con la que se casó en 1946 tras divorciarse de su primera mujer (una refugiada alemana de origen judío, con la que se había casado con el solo fin de asegurarle un permiso de residencia en Estados Unidos). La amplitud de su cultura y bagaje de experiencias fueron en extremo inspiradoras para el resto del grupo.
A pesar de ser mayor que los demás, Burroughs todavía tenía que comenzar a escribir, como ya Kerouac y Ginsberg habían hecho. Finalmente completó “Junkie”, editada en 1953, una historia autobiográfica sobre su adicción a la heroína, firmada con el seudónimo de William Lee y publicada por Ace Books, donde refulgen sentencias como “He aprendido la ecuación de la droga. La droga no es como el alcohol o la hierba, un medio para incrementar el disfrute de la vida. La droga no proporciona alegría ni bienestar: es una manera de vivir”. “Queer” (“raro”), un examen de su homosexualidad igualmente descarnado, fue rechazado por el editor y no salió a la luz pública por décadas.
A principios de los años ’50 Burroughs, perseguido por las autoridades antinarcóticos, debió emigrar con su familia a México. Allí, intentando impresionar a sus amigos con sus habilidades como tirador, le pidió a Joan que participara en una prueba al estilo de Guillermo Tell; un tiro fallido mató a la Vollmer y lo obligó a huir por medio planeta, tras ser acusado de homicidio involuntario. Burroughs terminó estableciéndose en Tánger, Marruecos.
En una biografía publicada en 1982 (“Literary outlaw”, o “forajido literario”) Burroughs formula la terrible declaración de que fue el asesinato de su esposa lo que lo convirtió en un escritor serio. “Me vi forzado a extraer la espantosa conclusión de que nunca me habría convertido en escritor de no ser por la muerte de Joan, y a comprender la magnitud hasta la cual tal evento ha motivado y formulado mis escritos. Vivo con la constante amenaza de la posesión, y una constante necesidad de escapar de la posesión, del Control. Entonces la muerte de Joan me puso en contacto con el invasor, el Espíritu Feo, y me llevó a una vida de lucha en la que no tuve otra elección que abrirme camino escribiendo”.
Tras el éxito de sus respectivos “En la carretera” y “Aullido”, tanto Kerouac como Ginsberg se habían convertido en celebridades, y con la Generación Beat en su esplendor, rastrearon a William Burroughs hasta África, encontrándolo hundido en su adicción, aunque todavía capaz de escribir brillantes fragmentos de prosa experimental. Kerouac comenzó a tipear el material e incluso le dio un título, “The naked lunch” (“el almuerzo desnudo”).
Como casi toda su obra, es de difícil lectura de corrido. (“No pretendo imponer relato, argumento, continuidad… En la medida en que consigo un registro DIRECTO de ciertas áreas del proceso psíquico, quizá desempeñe una función concreta… no pretendo entretener”). Empero, la prosa de Burroughs es extrañamente sugestiva, casi hipnótica, e increíblemente poderosa. “El almuerzo desnudo” es un registro descarnado de la manera en que funciona (o no) la mente de un adicto. Burroughs usa técnicas de escritura no convencionales para pintar la historia (hasta donde hay una historia) de un mundo subterráneo enfrentado a una sociedad tecnológica autodestructiva. A la vez fue saludado como prueba de un genio literario y desechado como basura indescifrable, porque la novela fue escrita fuera de todo estándar de la prosa narrativa, con abruptas transiciones de sentido, capítulos en orden aleatorio, largas digresiones guiadas por el libre flujo de la conciencia, extrañas construcciones gramaticales y palabras inventadas pero de poderosa sonoridad, porque, como él afirmara: “las palabras son una manera de hacer las cosas con rodeos, como si avanzáramos en un carro tirado por bueyes… son instrumentos torpes que finalmente serán dejados de lado”.
Y Burroughs no sólo despedaza el lenguaje: también lo hace con la hipocresía de la moral burguesa, la manipulación de los grandes medios de comunicación, la criminalización de las drogas como medio para implantar el control gubernamental de la vida privada de los ciudadanos, la prepotencia imperial de la política exterior de su país. Su anarquismo extremo era una forma de individualismo radical muy norteamericana: tampoco le resultaban simpáticos los regímenes socialistas.
Tras un exitoso tratamiento contra su adicción y la publicación de “El almuerzo desnudo” en 1959, Burroughs se convirtió en una celebridad. La novela, que sufrió un proceso por obscenidad del que resultó absuelto y fue un hito en la defensa de la libertad de expresión, permanece aún hoy como su libro más conocido e influyente.
LA TÉCNICA DEL CUT-UP
“Brion Gysin fue el principal instigador de los ‘cut-ups’ [algo así como “corte”]. Emergen nuevas palabras y nuevos significados: al cortar palabras, nuevas palabras aparecen, a veces la palabra justa. Es un proceso de expansión de la conciencia. (¿Cuán aleatorio es el azar?). Cada vez que se mira por la ventana, se camina alrededor de la casa o se anda por cualquier calle, el fluir de la conciencia es interrumpido por palabras e imágenes aparentemente al azar”.
En 1959, el artista plástico Brion Gysin le comentó a Burroughs que “la literatura estaba cincuenta años atrasada con respecto a la pintura”. Le sugirió, siguiendo el ejemplo de movimientos de vanguardia como los dadaístas y los surrealistas, que usara técnicas de collage en su escritura. Burroughs y Gysin experimentaron con montajes de texto e imágenes, por ejemplo, superponiendo discursos presidenciales y fragmentos de Rimbaud o Shakespeare. Burroughs había utilizado sin saberlo la técnica del cut-up en “El almuerzo desnudo”, pero el comentario de Gysin lo liberó de sus prejuicios y lo invitó a continuar experimentando.
Dijo el crítico Robin Lydenberg: “en lugar de licuefacción condensada en una sola imagen, Burroughs crea una aleatoria, infinita variedad de implosiones y explosiones, el ritmo pulsante mismo de la vida”. Esto es, una manera de expresar múltiples visiones por medio de la mezcla de hechos disparatados, ciencia ficción e imaginería para hallar puntos de convergencia que antes estaban escondidos. Un ejemplo en la red de su prosa, de los menos abiertamente “experimentales”
DESPUÉS DEL ALMUERZO…
… Burroughs continuó editando libros. En 1961 salió “La máquina blanda”, primer resultado de la aplicación de la técnica del cut-up; un año después salió “El tiquet que explotó”; en 1963, un volumen de su correspondencia con Allen Ginsberg, “Cartas del yage”. (La amistad y colaboración literaria con el poeta sobrevivió a la ruptura de su relación sentimental; Ginsberg lo echó con una memorable frase, gritada en plena calle en Nueva York: “no quiero tu asquerosa pija”).
Tras “Expreso Nova” (1964) grabó el disco “Call me Burroughs”, una colección de lecturas de materiales de “El almuerzo desnudo” y “La máquina blanda”.
En 1971 apareció ” The wild boys: a book of the dead”, y en 1973, “Exterminator!”. En colaboración con John Giorno editó sus discos “Nothing here now but the recordings” (1975) y “You’re the guy I want to share my money with” (1981). En ese año se radicó en Lawrence, Kansas, y salió su libro “Cities of the Red Night”.
Su estilo había cambiado. Como él mismo dijera: “creo que Finnegan`s Wake ejemplifica muy bien la trampa en que puede caer la literatura experimental cuando se convierte en puramente experimental. Yo he ido así de lejos en algunos experimentos concretos y luego he retrocedido; es decir, ahora vuelvo a escribir narrativa lineal puramente convencional, pero aplicando lo que he aprendido con el cut-up y con las otras técnicas a los problemas de la escritura convencional”.
A fines de los ’80 era una especie de ícono pop, un oscuro símbolo de la sordidez de lo dionisíaco. Un papel secundario en 1989 en “Drugstore Cowboy”, de Gus Van Sant, le dio su mayor exposición a la luz pública. En 1991 el cineasta canadiense David Cronenberg filmó “El almuerzo desnudo”, en realidad un collage expresionista que tomaba elementos de la vida real de Burroughs (la muerte de su esposa, su relación con Ginsberg y Kerouac, circunstancias de su exilio en Tánger), tanto como de “El almuerto desnudo”, “Exterminador” y “Junkie” (de hecho, el personaje principal de la película se llama William Lee, como el seudónimo que usara Burroughs). Cronenberg fue lo suficientemente inteligente como para no intentar una traducción automática del libro, sino que trató de asimilar las obsesiones del viejo Bill y expresarlas en el lenguaje del cine, algo que logra en buena medida. Cronenberg dijo en una oportunidad que una adaptación literal “duraría cuatro horas, costaría 90 millones de dólares y sería prohibida en cada país de la Tierra”.
En 1990 salió “Dead City Radio”, una colección de lecturas respaldadas en la música de, entre otros, Sonic Youth, John Cale y la Orquesta Sinfónica de la NBC. En 1992 apareció en la canción de Ministry “Just one fix”, y al año siguiente grabó ” The ‘priest’ they called him” con Kurt Cobain. Ese año también salió su último disco, “Spare Ass Annie and other tales” [Annie Culo de Repuesto y otros cuentos] junto a los Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprisy.
En sus últimos años, su voz sampleada apareció en discos de Jesus and Mary Chain, Laurie Anderson y Material; coescribió con Tom Waits la ópera gótica “The black rider”, y apareció brevemente en el final del videoclip de U2 “Last night on Earth”, de 1997, unas pocas semanas antes de morir pacíficamente de un ataque al corazón, el 2 de agosto, en Lawrence, nada menos que a los 83 años de edad…