The Legacy of William Seward Burroughs
Collage Andrew Shachat
The death of William Burroughs on 2nd August this year came as a shock. Following as it did so soon after the death earlier in the year of Allan Ginsberg, it was depressing that the last of the three founders of the Beat movement couldn’t have stayed around a little longer. but even Inspector Lee of the Nova Police had to begin his journey to the Western Lands at some time, n’est ce pas?
So much has been written about William Burroughs, and he is a figure of such enduring fascination to his many fans, that it is hard to know what to say about him that hasn’t already been said better by someone else. Obituary writers in newspapers around the world were bound to try and quantify his importance and define his place as a writer in the pantheon of 20th century literature. They also, naturally, focused on the unorthodoxy of his life and particularly the killing of his wife Joan in Mexico City, which was the trigger for much of his later commitment and achievement as a writer.
For many, however, the mere mention of Bill Burroughs and everything he seemed to stand for, caused them to shudder and recoil in horror. Junky, homosexual, lowlife, pornographer, iconoclast, gun lover, disinterested in image, culture or conventional acceptance of any kind, he was not the kind of guy they would have wanted to invite for dinner, let alone get stuck in a lift with. More than that, he fundamentally disturbed the comfortable sense of order and propriety with which most people find it necessary to approach their lives. The fact is that most of us squares need the security blanket of emotional, social and financial certainties; society tends to define us by what we have, rather than who we are, and we find people who don’t play the same game disturbing. Most of us, in other words, are interested in self-preservation at the expense of any kind of real risk taking. In a world designed for people to take the easy moral exit, Bill conspicuously chose the tough option.
To borrow a jazz musician’s reference, Bill Burroughs played ‘outside’, rather than ‘inside’. Whilst he may have been born to a well-placed, middle class St Louis family, from an early age he realised he didn’t fit in anywhere. His subsequent life as the ultimate outsider took him to many strange places and to depths of addiction, despair and loneliness which might have broken a man of lesser character. But, even his darkest moments, Bill was never less than honest about himself and his work; his sense of humour remained intact; and he rose above a potential degradation to retain his essential humanity, politeness and good sense. In the process, and despite the chaos, he was a committed writer. Never content to be a hack, he lived way out on the creative edge, believing that the true writer needs to court real danger in order to break through the banal and mediocre.
So what lessons are there to be learned from the life and times of William Burroughs? From the books, the correspondence, the cut-ups, the personal accounts of those who knew this extraordinary man, his actions and the world’s response to him?
The primary lesson I take from Bill is to believe in the power and sanctity of the human imagination. In an age which has cast aside ideology and the value of ideas for their own sake, an age in which we gobble up information that is prepackaged, sold to us by ‘specialists’, and presented like fast food, Bill Burroughs shows that the individualist still has a constituency and an importance.
A conspicuous amateur in the age of the professional, he dares to say that the individual has a place outside the machine, that maybe the machine is conspiring to take away the rights of the individual because one outsider too far and maybe the machine will stop running. This will find a resonance with those who believe strongly, as I do, that physical, intellectual and economic regimentation are eroding our civil liberties and reducing our power to think for ourselves. Much of Bill’s writing was done in the shadow of the Bomb, to him the ultimate obscenity, final evidence of the world gone mad. After the Bomb, Bill reasoned, everything that had gone before was changed, the world was in the grip of a machine running out of control.
The individual, the outsider, reserves the right to walk the other way round the track. There are many outsiders in society today, responding to different beliefs and motivations. Society is involuntarily creating more and more outsiders, the thinkers, those on the radical margins, the hopeless, the dispossessed, the imaginative, people who just can’t run the conventional race. For them, and for those who are spinning out of control but can’t see a way of getting off, Bill is a kind of Patron Saint. You can look at his life and see a man who lived it on his terms, who went down just about as far as it is possible to go without sinking, yet managed to retain his stubbornness and his determination to be himself, at all costs. In the end, the defining magic about Bill Burroughs was that he was never afraid to face himself. He took responsibility for his actions, however unforgivable, and lived with the consequences, in an age when everyone is blaming someone else .
My suspicion is that many of us lead our lives in fear and worry, locked in to a remorseless economic reality built on perpetual motion, a moral and aesthetic exhaustion, a culture built around lowest common denominator values, on a planet that is creaking at the seams and bullied by perpetual images of the unattainable. It is an irony that, in an age where we seem to have more of everything than ever before, we are sinking into a kind of lethargy, dissatisfaction and depression about our own, and the world’s, circumstances, that is quite new.
So, let Uncle Bill loosen up your imagination, kid, wyncha? The Nova Express is getting ready to leave.
Sound of distant train whistles. The sharp smell of burning leaves. A piano playing down a wind-blown St Louis street.
**********
De : Vyvyan Kinross <vkinross@psilink.co.uk>
À : baudron@interpc.fr <baudron@interpc.fr>
Date : mardi 20 octobre 1998 11:33
Objet : Article for magazine
I am attaching an article (fiction) of course, which I thought might be interesting for the on-line
newsletter. I know you are looking for contributions.
Whilst the article may seem authentic (it is designed to be so, based on a real meeting, at a real place and time) ), I think maybe if you want to use it, you should find a way of making sure that readers understand it is not genuine. Or perhaps that is just where the fun starts? Who knows?
Hoping this finds you well.
With love
Vyvyan
"BLOOD IS A HELL OF A LOT THICKER THAN WATER...."
The following conversation took place between the writer, William Seward Burroughs and his brother, Mortimer, on the evening of 23rd December 1964, at 6617 Pershing Avenue, St Louis. Without the brothers’ knowledge, or approval, Mort’s wife Miggy taped the conversation after dinner that evening and later transcribed it, or had it transcribed by others. The transcript was found with her private papers after her death. It is not complete, however, and the full transcript has never been found. The transcript is the only precise record of any conversation held between the brothers during their lifetimes. The original tape recording has never been located, but now must be presumed destroyed. The copyright resides with the estate of Mortimer Burroughs.
........Sound of furniture moving, a glass is struck against a table.....a female voice mutters in the background.....a male voice coughs.....’
William Seward Burroughs (WSB) : "......When you came down to Mexico City after Joan, the accident with Joan, it was good to see you. You know I had cut myself off from the family almost completely at that time. And then, then you turned up in really the most difficult circumstances. I had gone too far out at that time, way too far......"
Mortimer Burroughs (MB): "Yeah, actually Bill, when I arrived in Mexico City after Joan, I thought you were fucking crazy, absolutely fucking crazy. You were drinking. The amount of booze was incredible. And you were behaving like some old junkie. You had uremic poisoning, for God’s sake. This whole episode was bound to end badly for you.....the lack of control...everything"
WSB: "True, true. Joan was absolutely out of it too, really out of it. She was doing so much benny she didn’t know if it was night or day.........(sings) Night and Day......You are The One....."
MB: "What was it with Joan? Did she hate her life with you so much, Bill?"
WSB: "You know, a lot of people never understood about me and Joan. I never promised Joan anything. She stayed with me because, well, we had a kid, you know, and we enjoyed each other on a lot of levels......I guess I was exciting for her and, actually, she was a terrific woman, very amusing. I mean Joan was up for things, you know. Remember Texas? Joan and I had a lot of good times in Texas. But, I guess, I was never let’s say, a particularly conventional kind of guy. I mean, I did my best. I did my best. You know, when we met in NY it was exciting. I mean, I enjoyed Joan as a woman, as much as I, you know, enjoyed women like that....it was just, well, I needed more, you know, and she couldn’t do it for me, so she took a lot of benny, she was high a lot, but we had good times."
MB: "Yeah, but while you and Joan were getting out of it in Mexico, I was here. I was working as an engineer at Emerson then. Still am. I mean, I have to say this Bill, you were still taking a goddam monthly cheque from dad. I resented that. I still resent that, Bill. I was carrying a big load. I always carried the family load for you Bill and while I was giving something back all the time, you were taking. You never thanked me or anything. You just never communicated at all, not until I came down to get Billy in Mexico, then we talked."
2/
WSB: "Yeah, I remember. I cried that night. Remember how I cried that night? I felt like I had lost my family, lost Joan, lost everything. I cried for Billy, too and Julie. I was so alone, and I wanted to be a child again, back in the family. Jesus, I don’t like to talk about that, or even think about it, you know, I haven’t even thought about it for years. I guess I buried it because it’s too painful, just too painful, you know, it’s one of those things...." (Pauses, then begins to cry).....
MB: "C’mon Bill, don’t upset yourself. This was a long time ago. We’re talking about a long time ago, now. You don’t wanna go back there. It was a different time, a different place. It’s finished......And Joan, well, she........"
WSB: "I think about Joan all the time, you know. I did the cut-up in Paris with Bryon: ‘Raw winds of hate blew the shot’, you remember that? Maybe I never told you about it. It was a freaky thing, you know. I guess I never talked to you too much about the cut-ups. You never really liked anything I did then."
MB: "I never liked what you did too much, Bill. And I just never understood the cut-ups at all. As you know I thought Lunch (The Naked Lunch) was obscene. Ma thought Lunch lunch was disgusting....she wanted you to do a book that you could dedicate to Billy....you know, that he could be proud of....But I have to say, Bill, I always thought of you as an artist from an early time. After Junkie, I said, he can write, he can write, maybe someday, he’ll write something that will make him into someone, you know....."
WSB: "Yeah, well Junkie was what got me started, you know. And actually, I kind of feel OK about that book. I mean, it was quite good for the time and place you know. I didn’t have any faith in myself as a writer then. Didn’t believe I would ever be a writer, do anything really (Mutters)....It was Alan got me right down to it, organised and everything, he believed in me, you know, always did, still does, actually............"
MB: "And after Joan, you really became a writer.......really, ......"
WSB: (Crying): "After Joan, I.....(Breaks down)..........After Joan, yeah, I had to write after that, had no choice. And, in some strange way, it kind of vindicated me as an artist, gave my life some purpose, some direction. I have always suffered for what I did to Joan, never been off the hook, it’s been, you know (cries again, breaks down)....."
MB: "Bill, take it easy, please, for Christ Sakes (mutters, inaudible)......"
WSB: "Yeah, sorry Mort. I really am sorry. There’s no excuse for this (cries). I guess it’s seeing you after so long, and Miggy, and thinking about the family again, mum and dad. How bad I feel about Dad, and I was never able really to get through to him. I think I was cruel, but I don’t really know why... I guess it’s very complicated, you can’t look too deep....I don’t know what to say about that....I never really gave him any breaks, and he was always bailing me out, you know. Remember when I crashed the goddam car? Remember? And he came down to the precinct house and got me out, took me home? Remember how I rejected him later on that night in the kitchen, did I ever tell you about that?"
MB: "Yeah. Yeah. I remember now. You told me"
WSB: "How do I forgive myself for that? I guess there’s no way. It’s too late. So much pain (cries)......"
MB: "Bill. Bill. You want some brandy? A little brandy?"
WSB: "Yeah, that would be nice, Mort. A little brandy would be nice. Thanks."
3/
MB: (Sound of pouring) "So what are you doing in the city now?"
WSB: "I am writing this piece for Playboy magazine, like ‘Back to St Louis after 30 years, how has it changed, that kind of thing, you know? Walking the old streets."
MB: "You wanna stay here tonight, Bill. You’re welcome, you know. We can move things around a little, actually there’s the spare room, now I think about it....."
WSB: "No, thanks, Mort. Really. I have to get back to the hotel. But it’s been good to see you."
MB: "So, after the Playboy deal, Bill, what next? Back to New York? Tangier? What? I can’t keep up with you."
WSB: "Well, you know, it’s kind of exciting being back in the States. I was away for so long and a lot of things are changing. But I have some writing to do, and its best for me to do that in Tangier still, or maybe London, I don’t know. London is so (Pause) provincial, and so expensive. I used to like it a lot, the English, you know, now I’m not so sure. Tangier has changed too much, it’s just not the same place anymore. And so full of queens, Mort, its just like fag city, you know. Still, the boys are kind of obliging, now I think about it......"
MB: "I don’t wanna hear this, Bill. You know I can’t handle this side of you. The homo bit, I just can’t deal with, it’s distressing. It still distresses me, you know. I don’t understand.......Ma doesn’t really know, does she? Did you ever tell her?
WSB: Well, ma is kind of psychic. And you know how much she hates bodies. But we don’t talk about anything, except stuff that really doesn’t matter. I don’t mean Billy, though; we talk about Billy but I feel it’s all so hopeless. I’ve been no good for him, really. Always wrong place, wrong time, (mutters, coughs) a lousy father I guess, no sense of responsibility, a failure...."
MB: Yeah, well you wouldn’t say it had all be a conspicuous success...."
WSB: "Goddam right it hasn’t."
MB: "So where is Billy now?"
WSB: "You mean, like right now? School. He’s in school."
MB: "Can you see a future for Billy and you together? Do you think you can live together and, maybe, you know, make some kind of life again....?"
WSB: "Well, ah, I ...I...."
MB: "Maybe you could get a house out in California, or down in Mexico again, where it’s cheap and the food’s good, too."
4/
WSB: "I got too many memories, Mort. Too many bad memories. And, anyway, I’m still a goddam wanted man in Mex, remember, I skipped bail when Jurado sprang me, went on down to Panama. They would really be pleased to see me now. You bet. ‘Muchos dolares, senor or you’ll never see your kid again, comprendes?’ I don’t think so, Mort...’
MB: You know, Bill, when I read ‘Lunch’, I wondered about you. Your mind. It’s so......weird.......where does it all come from?"
WSB: "Well, you know, the power of the human imagination is awesome. And, let’s be honest, I’m some kind of sick bastard, I guess. Who knows?.....(laughs)."
MB: "It’s good to see you laugh, Bill. Yeah, you are some kind of sick bastard (laughs)....."
(Here the tape ends. We can only speculate on the remainder of the conversation, which neither brother ever referred to through any other written or spoken reference. Burroughs fans will find a number of messages here that add to the sum of knowledge about the great writer, not least the guilt for his common law wife, Joan Vollmer, and his son Billy Burroughs, who died of drug abuse and neglect in his late thirities in California)
ends
Or to the
