Word Virus: The William S. Burroughs Reader

by William S. Burroughs

  “I don’t want to believe it boss.”

  “B.J., remember the roller coaster at Forest Park Highlands?”

  “I sure do boss. Why one time me and that Mexican girl used to work in the Chink laundry on Olive Street—”

  “All right, B.J., cut. From now on we run a clean show. A show you can take your kids and your grandmother to see it. Just good clean magic for all the family. Remember Thurston?”

  “I sure do boss. He made a white elephant disappear.”

  “Exactly—a white elephant—all our grey junk yesterdays—everything sharp and clear like after the rain.”

  At this point B. J. jumped to his feet, opened an umbrella and bellowed out “April Showers”—(White rain sloshed down—a wall of water you understand.)

  “All right, B.J., cut!”

  Sunday December 27 driving around St. Louis with brother “Bu” stopping here and there to take pictures—The Old Courthouse and all the records /Take/ and there by the river across the river depending on which way you come on it is the arch still under construction at that time 600 feet high when they finished it—(Gateway To The West)—has an ominous look like the only landmark to survive an atomic blast or other natural catastrophe / Take/cobblestone streets along the levee—refuse of river boat days—strata of brick and masonry—geology of a city—MacArthur Bridge /Take/and just there a truck will crash through the guard rail and fall 75 feet killing the driver you can see the dotted line in the Post Dispatch picture /Take/ River Queen and the Admiral just like they used to be red plush guilt the lot cruising down the river on a Sunday afternoon.

  “Shall we take in the West End?”

  Clayton and the West End suburbs now built up beyond recognition after 20 years’ absence. In the 1920s my family moved out west on the Price Road—700 S. /Take/ and just down the road is the John Burroughs School and there is the locker room door /Take/ where I stood one afternoon a long time ago and watched the torn sky bend with the wind lightning struck the school just there/Take/( Whoever said lightning never strikes twice in the same place was no photographer.)—1929 tornado if my memory serves when all the records went up name and address old arch there by the river with the cold spring news.

  “Cruising Down the River on a Sunday Afternon”—(This music across the water—The Veiled Prophet Ball off stage)—On the scene photographs by William Born Field St. Louis Magazine 52, Retarded Children’s Project, young St. Louis citizens bicentennial salute: (Happy New Year Comte Hector Perrone de San Martine Mrs. Edge at home last Thursday in May, Fete Die, Principle de la Tour, Gentilhomo di Palazzo, you’re a long retarded children project veiled way from St. Louis. I, Famous Bar Prophet, had not thought Death Magazine 52 had undone so many for I have known them all: Baron Rashid Pierre de Cobo—Helen Zapiola Theresa Riley—I digress I digress.)

  “Now what in Horton Vernet Gen-San Martine Zapiolo The Swan Last Day de Cobo Principe di Castel Hose it Chicale Randy Veiled Miguel Garcia de Rube Gordon Hell does that mean?” interjected B.J.

  (A long review—human voices—They expected answers?)

  Family Reunion at my Aunt K’s. B.J. has observed with his usual astuteness in such matters that there is only half a bottle of whiskey on the side board, volunteered for bartender duty surreptitiously serving himself double measure so when another bottle is produced rather sooner than later we both feel a little well you know B.J. is an old Alcohol Anonymous as used to electrify the meetings with his confessions: “Once at the house of a friend” he begins sepulchrally “in the dead of night—I”—he stabs a finger at his chest—“sneaked into the room of my host’s adolescent son.” He tiptoes across the platform and turns to the audience. “You get the picture?” The audience stirs uneasily. B.J. shifts an imaginary flashlight—“arrowheads—a stone axe—butterfly trays—the cyanide jar—a stuffed owl—Whoo whoo whoo drank the alcohol off the boy’s preserved centipede?”—It was emetic in the good sense. (I digress—a drunk policeman—Stein reverts to his magazine.)

  I address myself to a cousin who is now account executive for an advertising firm: “What I say is time for the artist and the ad man to get in a symbiotic way and give birth to what we may call ‘Creative Advertising’ I mean advertisements that tell a story and create character. Like this see? So you handle the Southern Comfort account?”

  “Ty Bradly river boat gambler at your service, suh.” His blue eyes fixed quizzically on the barmaid’s ample bosom, he drawled out “I’ll take double Southern Comfort, Ma’am.”

  “Pardon me are you Colonel Bradly? Colonel Ty Bradly?”

  Bradly turned to face the question his eyes unbluffed unreadable two fingers in a vest pocket rested lightly on the cold blue steel of his Remington derringer.

  “I am suh.”

  “Yeah and think what we could do with the Simmons Mattress account,” interjected B.J.

  (All right, B.J., /Cut.!/) See what I mean? glamour romance—Inspector J. Lee of the Nova Police smokes Players—(flashes his dirty rotten hunka tin)—Agent K9 uses a Bradly laser gun—Advertisements should provide the same entertainment value as the content of a magazine. Tour product deserves the best. Why make up silly jingles? Why not use the good old songs like “Annie Laurie.” There’s a story goes with that song. Remember a young cop whistling “Annie Laurie” down cobblestone streets? Then he stopped in the corner saloon for a glass of Budweiser which he couldn’t have done really being on duty. Yes he would have approved your favorite smoke. Show your cards all Players. And remember a young cop whistling “Annie Laurie” down cobblestone streets twirling his club drew September 17, 1899, over St. Louis.

  (The sky goes out against his back.)

  Mr. Dickson Terry of the St. Louis Post Dispatch interviews your reporter: “As you know in the 1890s St. Louis was famous throughout the world for such restaurants as Tony Faust—But when I was last here twenty years ago there was not a first class eating place to be found in the city”—You might say all the uh flavor had been siphoned off into the subdivisions and country clubs of the West End—This process is now being reversed—any number of excellent restaurants—three in fact right here in the Chase Plaza Hotel—a movement back to the city—back to the 1890s finds expression in Gas Light Square and the refurbished river boats—yes decidedly the reversal of a trend which I for one found deplorable—and that is what I am getting at in this seemingly obscure passage.” I taped a text on the table between us, a text using the three column format of a small town newspaper.

  THE MOVING TIMES

  September 17, 1899, Mr. Bradly Mr. Martin stood there on dead stars heavy with his dusty answer drew September 17,1899, over New York that morning giving you my toy soldiers put away in the attic.

  Attic of the Eugene Field House you understand never happened. Remember the Mary Celeste?’ghost ship abandoned back in 1872 all sails set nobody on board fresh southerly winds a long time ago for such a purpose? Now here is the front page of the Chicago Tribune Monday, January 4,1965, The American Paper For Americans:

  Tempest Hurls 807 On Ship Like Ten-pins—16 Hurt in Nightmare.

  The American liner Independence—North Atlantic storm—ripped open a weather door on a lower deck smashed a porthole on an upper deck and hurled half a ton of ice water on a couple asleep—(presumably waking them)—Captain Riley of the Independence described the storm as the worst he had encountered in more than 40 years at sea. “It was like riding a roller coaster.”

  (“By the way, B.J. what ever happened to Forest Park Highlands?”

  “It burned down, boss—hot peep shows in the penny arcade.”)

  Well now it so happens that I repatriated myself on the Independence docked December 8, 1964, if my memory serves. I had the pleasure of meeting Captain Riley at the Captain’s Cocktail Party where no one seemed to know who anybody else was supposed to be and everybody a bit miffed in consequence. I approached the Captain directly: “Captain, may I ask you a question? a novelist’s question?” (For I was you understand the
distinguished novelist of whom nobody had heard.)

  “Why uh yes,” he replied guardedly.

  “Please tell me Captain quite frankly do you have any theories or guesses in short any shall we say notions with regard to the Mary Celeste?”

  He replied after a short pause that he could think of no explanation that accounted for all the facts.

  “Captain,” I stated firmly, “the plain fact is that there are no facts. I myself—and I may tell you in strictest confidence that I was once a private investigator—have sifted this matter to the bottom most deep and established every reason to doubt that such a ship as the Mary Celeste ever existed. The whole thing was a fabrication out of whole cloth or paper more precisely—The Captain’s Log Book you understand”—and I gave him a straight look—“Is this the starboard side?” I asked.

  “Why yes it is.”

  “Ah—just so—you see—”

  So with the picture of that old sea dog shifting slightly as the ship rolled ports of the world in his eyes and a picture postcard of the SS Independence pasted into my own log of the voyage steaming across a paper sea just as empty as the Mary Celeste—paper you understand—not a passenger in sight—well just so—“The American paper for Americans—Independence—”

  So I make these last entries in the log book of my St. Louis return—luggage stacked in the lobby—back through the ruins of Market Street to the Union Station nudes waiting there in the dry fountain of an empty square—I have returned to pick up a few pieces of sunlight and shadow—silver paper in the wind-frayed sounds of a distant city.

  from the third mind

  (with Brion Gysin)

  THE EXTERMINATOR

  Let petty kings the name of party know

  Where I come I kill both friend and foe.

  San Francisco, 1960. The Human Being are strung lines of word associates that control “thoughts feelings and apparent sensory impressions.” Quote from Encephalographic Research, Chicago, Written in TIME. See and hear what They expect to see and hear because The Word Lines Keep Thee in Slots . . .

  Cut the Word Lines with scissors or switchblade as preferred . . . The Word Lines keep you in Time. . . Cut the in lines . . . Make out lines to Space. Take a page of your own writing if you write or a letter or a newspaper article or a page or less or more of any writer living and or dead . . . Cut into sections. Down the middle. And across the sides . . . Rearrange the sections . . . Write the result message . . .

  Who wrote the original words is still there in any rearrangement of his or her or whatever words . . . Can recognize Rimbaud cut-up as Rimbaud . . . A Melville cut-up as Melville . . . Shakespeare moves with Shakespeare words . . . So forth anybody can be Rimbaud if he will cut up Rimbaud’s words and learn Rimbaud language talk think Rimbaud . . . And supply reasonably appropriate meat. All dead poets and writers can be reincarnate in different hosts.

  Cut-up . . . Raise standard of writer production to a point of total and permanent competition of all minds living and dead Out Space. Concurrent. . .

  No one can conceal what is saying cut-up . . . You can cut the Truth out of any written or spoken words//

  Light Lines Pulling All Knights Ten Age Future Time.

  From The Brass and Copper Street. . . In sick body . . . His Feet of Void . . .

  H seemed to be the Leader of the Dry Air . . . Brought up Young European.

  Backdrop of Swiss Lakes . . . Certain Formalities . . . That simplified everything.

  “I represent the lithe aloof young men of The Breed charmingly. Everyone here is from The American Women with a delicate lilt. We are all empowered to make arrests and enough with just the right shade of show you.”

  A Mexican Beach Boy was empty . . . Allies wait on knives valicided with the corny positions . . . Virginia Reel Commitments in The Fulton . . . Royal Crowns drew a short .22 and out of date devices The Caribbean swelled to take Punishment Wisconsin He Advantages. Street gangs Uranian . . . Uranian Gum Sir. Chewing Gum Conditions.

  Lesser crimes pudgy and no good conditions. Out Show included assault and murder or Reality . . . Will Hollywood never leave? Decide The Pavement was Unimaginable Disaster? King H in Tanganyika? Or was it? . . . Policemen back from shadows too?

  Light across Long Island flickers through the Junk Antennae. Vulture wings husk in the swimming pool. A Cadillac will accrete The Ice. Typical Sights leak out. . . The Boys drift in from Work H Sling . . .

  They are rebuilding The City Lee Knows in Four Letter Words . . . Vibrating Air Hammers the Code Write.

  The stars out for you . . . “You don’t get it if I don’t.”

  A Brown Architect. . . Unknown and probably hostile . . . Muttering leg in the night. . . On the Tracks I told . . . The West Side push You on tacks.

  The Beware Look went wrong . . . Cement Shoe in the Junk Dawn . . . Shining Sores scan a Silver Message: You Strictly from Monkey without the Utilities Trak Service . . .

  But the Manikin was unable to confirm the Account.

  “You crazy or something walk around alone?”

  Vote handed Moscow Full Body . . . Assailant fell from High Lavatory . . .

  Evidence he said water taste of Rome . . . Uncle from America educative laughing . . . Venus with Doctor Gold . . . A lone survivor flight. . . Venus he was incorporated . . .

  Thing wilder America . . . Unequal scar . . . Never healed . . . Students signaled out for this treatment. . . Can be telescope in Paris TV Program . . . New Zealand along The Miss River . . . Board a second-class Citizen back to Germany . . . Vichy two-tone the area . . .

  Undamaged but both died . . . Webster Discovery brings personal check or . . . Part of the Public Domain . . . Creamed spinach or violence . . . Dead Hand stretching the Vegetable People . . .

  She raised to A Writer Gertrude Stein and one a prisoner Shakespeare . . . We operate great Hate Box . . . Are also a Martin Executive . . .

  Program Late 1962 Future Time New Look for touring on Venus . . . Not the scientific . . . Telecommunications said these findings wrong.

  Bad shape from Death . . . Mr Shannon no cept pay . . . Nothing can except Me Ass At. . . Tells me we do in Paris . . . My heart drink only desert words.

  Know here inadvisable to say The Spanish of next year hats in green neon . . . So I moved on the junk he used . . . In a burst of young . . . Flooding the world market with Star Pretties . . .

  The Board Vote handed Moscow full kidney . . . He was fiving away the Human Body . . . Assailant fled him as being five feet tall. . . Asked me to spend the evening in the company of the kidney structure. The Donor was revealed police said wearing a crew cut.

  No Good Pool. . . Typical sights leak out. . . Any point on the road he is . . . Raw and bleeding he gave out sistence of purpose . . . refractory mirrors between us dafted A Tainted through the Viscous Fish Market.

  Street Gangs Uranium Gum Sir . . . Of Chewing gum conditions. Out Show included sleeping pills in Backward Countries . . . Shit Customs perhaps with disaster? Shadows too.

  Afterward we would go git rich in shorts . . . His wife murmuring over and over: “Will accrete the ice.”

  Small talk of Practical Politics bluntly it was Russian. The First Man Protestor to be rocketed to The Moon.

  THE FUTURE OF THE NOVEL

  In my writing I am acting as a map maker, an explorer of psychic areas, to use the phrase of Mr Alexander Trocchi, as a cosmonaut of inner space, and I see no point in exploring areas that have already been thoroughly surveyed—A Russian scientist has said: “We will travel not only in space but in time as well—” That is to travel in space is to travel in time—If writers are to travel in space time and explore areas opened by the space age, I think they must develop techniques quite as new and definite as the techniques of physical space travel—Certainly if writing is to have a future it must at least catch up with the past and learn to use techniques that have been used for some time past in painting, music and film—Mr Lawrence Durrell has led the way in developing a
new form of writing with time and space shifts as we see events from different viewpoints and realize that so seen they are literally not the same events, and that the old concepts of time and reality are no longer valid—Brion Gysin, an American painter living in Paris, has used what he calls “the cut-up method” to place at the disposal of writers the collage used in painting for fifty years—Pages of text are cut and rearranged to form new combinations of word and image—In writing my last two novels, Nova Express and The Ticket That Exploded, I have used an extension of the cut-up method I call “the fold-in method”—A page of text—my own or someone else’s—is folded down the middle and placed on another page—The composite text is then read across half one text and half the other—The fold-in method extends to writing the flashback used in films, enabling the writer to move backward and forward on his time track—For example I take page one and fold it into page one hundred—I insert the resulting composite as page ten—When the reader reads page ten he is flashing forward in time to page one hundred and back in time to page one—the déjà vu phenomenon can so be produced to order—This method is of course used in music, where we are continually moved backward and forward on the time track by repetition and rearrangements of musical themes—

  In using the fold-in method I edit, delete and rearrange as in any other method of composition—I have frequently had the experience of writing some pages of straight narrative text which were then folded in with other pages and found that the fold-ins were clearer and more comprehensible than the original texts—Perfectly clear narrative prose can be produced using the fold-in method—Best results are usually obtained by placing pages dealing with similar subjects in juxtaposition—

  What does any writer do but choose, edit and rearrange material at his disposal?—The fold-in method gives the writer literally infinite extension of choice—Take for example a page of Rimbaud folded into a page of St John Perse—(two poets who have much in common)—From two pages an infinite number of combinations and images are possible—The method could also lead to a collaboration between writers on an unprecedented scale to produce works that were the composite effort of any number of writers living and dead—This happens in fact as soon as any writer starts using the fold-in method—I have made and used fold-ins from Shakespeare, Rimbaud, from newspapers, magazines, conversations and letters so that the novels I have written using this method are in fact composites of many writers—