2.45am here. Sitting drinking Beck's here and listening to Morrissey on my fonez. Going to bed would be a better option. But here are a few quotes ("It's a miracle I've even made it this far" sings Moz, and I could hardly agree more with him) from the letters book Screams From The Balcony by Charles Bukowski about our Patron Saint and Sinner, WSB:
(Dated March 17, 1963)
"More thunder. Burroughs, of course, is important because he keeps the air-holes open. We need a Joyce or Burroughs or Gertrude S. every age to keep us loose and let us know that everything needn't be so, the way it seems or the way the herd-writers want it to seem. These people are valuable, in a way, beyond their work - icebreakers, knockers down of policemen..."
(October 1, 1963)
"Now Ginsberg bothered me a long time, and then somebody told me Burroughs got a regular check from the Burroughs adding machine co. and some of the floss fell away, let alone the homo bit which DOES bother no matter how humanitarian you try to get."
(November what 18?, 1966)
"Burroughs, Ginsberg...how does it feel to be communicating with the Lights of the Age, and also with me. B. and G. have disappointed me at times, but let's admit that they have done things, and that no man creates pure Art day after day."
(January 28, 1967)
"Burroughs. all right. he is reaching, shuffling into a NEW DIMENSION. he is bored, mad, pissed with the ordinary product. rightfully so. any sane man is, any sane insane man. but Burroughs in mixed and mixing new paints, combos, finds flicks, colors, discoveries...surcharged with butter and fire, much of it not bad Art. fine, but he is sliding off the horizon. in trying to discover a New Reality he is losing the actual REALITY. this is his failure. let me illustrate - the only true forward-moving art is an art that discovers new form by still retaining actual reality - perhaps the best example of this is Finnegan's Wake by Joyce. he moved the word out of the concept of the word but still gave us the actual world. the instance came not by accident but by the force of innards and the lonely madness of luck and the way. Burroughs pasteups of the clipped-up London Daily Herald or whatever, or standing on his knees upside down reading the bible through a film of boiling skimmed milk is often entertaining and REAL but more often a trick, a falling together of an insignificant world by tricks and a lot of glue. now it is possible to to get a FREE WORLD WORD, a REAL SHOT FROM THE SKY BY WORKING THE TRICK, but down in us we know, finally, that the only way is to slug it out down the river. not because our masters and schoolteachers taught us this but because the masters and schoolteachers must go, and Burroughs is only pasting their dry canine flicks upon our murdered brows IN DIFFERENT ORDER. not enough. we need new blood, new miracle - not the mixing of old soup. and now that I have killed Burroughs, enough of that."
(November 2, 1968)
"But pros seem to turn to turn to pricks, finally. See Mailer, Genet, Burroughs, Ginsberg, who the hell else?"
3.10am. Wasted 25 minutes on this nonsense. Off to pish and then to my bed. Good night.
"Don't gimme anymore" - Morrissey.