Word Virus: The William S. Burroughs Reader

by William S. Burroughs

  I would like to emphasize that this is a technique and like any technique will, of course, be useful to some writers and not to others—In any case a matter for experimentation not argument—The conferring writers have been accused by the press of not paying sufficient attention to the question of human survival—In Nova Express (reference is to an exploding planet) and The Ticket That Exploded, I am primarily concerned with the question of survival—with nova conspiracies, nova criminals, and nova police—A new mythology is possible in the space age where we will again have heroes and villains with respect to intentions toward this planet—

  NOTES ON THESE PAGES

  To show “the fold-in method” in operation I have taken the two texts I read at The Writers’ Conference and folded them into newspaper articles on The Conference, The Conference Folder, typed out selections from various writers, some of whom were present and some of whom were not, to form a composite of many writers living and dead: Shakespeare, Samuel Beckett, T. S. Eliot, F. Scott Fitzgerald, William Golding, Alexander Trocchi, Norman Mailer, Colin Maclnnes, Hugh MacDiarmid.

  Mr Bradly-Mr Martin, in my mythology, is a God that failed, a God of Conflict in two parts so created to keep a tired old show on the road, The God of Arbitrary Power and Restraint, Of Prison and Pressure, who needs subordinates, who needs what he calls “his human dogs” while treating them with the contempt a con man feels for his victims—But remember the con man needs the Mark—The Mark does not need the con man—Mr Bradly-Mr Martin needs his “dogs” his “errand boys” his “human animals”—He needs them because he is literally blind. They do not need him. In my mythological system he is overthrown in a revolution of his “dogs”—“Dogs that were his eyes shut off Mr Bradly-Mr Martin.”

  “The ticket that exploded posed little time so I’ll say good night.”

  bath cubicle . . . lapping water over the concrete floor . . . pants slide . . . twisting thighs . . . penny arcades of an old dream . . . played the flute, shirt flapping down the cool path . . . on the 30th of July a distant room left no address . . . sleep breath . . . pale dawn wallpaper . . . faded morning . . . a place forgotten . . . a young man is dust and shredded memories naked empty a ding-dong bell. . . what in St Louis after September? . . . curtains . . . red light. . . blue eyes in the tarnished mirror pale fingers fading from ruined suburbs . . . fingers light and cold pulled up his pants . . . dark pipes call #23 . . . you touched from frayed jacket masturbated under thin pants . . . cracked pavements . . . sharp fish smells and dead eyes in doorways . . . soccer scores . . . the rotting kingdom . . . ghost hands at the paneless café . . .

  “Like good-bye, Johnny. On the 30th of July death left no address.”

  outskirts of the city . . . bare leg hairs . . . lunar fingers light and cold . . . distant music under the slate roof. . . soccer scores . . . the street blew rain . . . dawn shadow . . .

  “Like good-bye, Johnny.”

  cold blue room . . . distant music on the wind . . . tarnished mirror in the bath cubicle young face lapping water. . . red light. . . felt his pants slide . . . twisting thighs . . . street dust on bare leg hairs . . . open shirt. . . city sounds under the slate roof. . . played the flute with fingers fading . . . the street blew rain . . . pale smell of dawn in the door . . . played the flute with fingers light and cold . . . dark pipes left no address . . . sleep breath under the slate roof. . . silence ebbing from rose wallpaper. . . outskirts of the city masturbated under thin pants ten-year-old keeping watch . . . outside East St. Louis . . . cracked pavement. . . sharp scent of weeds . . . faded khaki pants . . . soccer scores . . . the driver shrugged . . . violence roared past the Café de France . . . he dressed hastily shirt flapping . . .

  “Like good-bye, Johnny.”

  wind through the curtains . . . bare iron frame of a dusty bed . . . in the tarnished mirror dead eyes of an old dream and the dreamer gone at dawn shirt. . . takes his way toward the sea breath of the trade winds on his face open shirt flapping . . . cool path from ruined suburbs . . . stale memories . . . excrement mixed with flowers . . . fly full of dust pulled up his pants . . . birdcalls . . . lapping water . . . a distant cool room . . . leg hairs rub rose wallpaper . . . pale dawn shirt in the door . . . sharp smell of weeds . . . you touched frayed jacket. . . mufflers . . . small pistols . . . quick fires from bits of driftwood . . . fish smells and dead eyes in doorways . . . a place forgotten . . . the ancient rotting kingdom . . . ghost hands at paneless windows . . . dust and shredded memories of war and death . . . petrified statues in a vast charred plain . . .

  in a rubbish heap to the sky Metal chess determined gasoline fires and smoke in motionless air—Smudge two speeds—DSL walks “here” beside me on extension lead from hairless skull—Flesh-smeared recorder consumed by slow metal fires—Dog-proof room important for our “oxygen” lines—Group respective recorder layout—“Throw the gasoline on them” determined the life form we invaded: insect screams—I woke up with “marked for invasion” recording set to run for as long as phantom “cruelties” are playing back while waiting to pick up Eduardo’s “corrupt” speed and volume variation Madrid—Tape recorder banks tumescent flesh—Our mikes planning speaker stood there in 1910 straw word—Either way is a bad move to The Biologic Stairway—The whole thing tell you—No good—No bueno outright or partially—The next state walking in a rubbish heap to Form A—Form A directs sound channels heat—White flash mangled down to a form of music—Life Form A as follows was alien focus—Broken pipes refuse “oxygen”—Form A parasitic wind identity fading out—“Word falling—Photo falling” flesh-smeared counter-orders—determined by last Electrician—Alien mucus cough language learned to keep all Board Room Reports waiting sound formations—Alien mucus tumescent code train on Madrid—Convert in “dirty pictures S”—simple repetition—Whole could be used as model for a bad move—Better than shouts: “No good—No bueno”—

  TECHNICAL DEPOSITION OF THE VIRUS POWER

  “Gentlemen, it was first suggested that we take our own image and examine how it could be made more portable. We found that simple binary coding systems were enough to contain the entire image however they required a large amount of storage space until it was found that the binary information could be written at the molecular level, and our entire image could be contained within a grain of sand. However it was found that these information molecules were not dead matter but exhibited a capacity for life which is found elsewhere in the form of virus. Our virus infects the human and creates our image in him.

  “We first took our image and put it into code. A technical code developed by the information theorists. This code was written at the molecular level to save space, when it was found that the image material was not dead matter, but exhibited the same life cycle as the virus. This virus released upon the world would infect the entire population and turn them into our replicas, it was not safe to release the virus until we could be sure that the last groups to go replica would not notice. To this end we invented variety in many forms, variety that is of information content in a molecule, which, enfin, is always a permutation of the existing material. Information speeded up, slowed down, permutated, changed at random by radiating the virus material with high-energy rays from cyclotrons, in short we have created an infinity of variety at the information level, sufficient to keep so-called scientists busy forever exploring the ‘richness of nature.’

  “It was important all this time that the possibility of a human ever conceiving of being without a body should not arise. Remember that the variety we invented was permutation of the electromagnetic structure of matter energy interactions which are not the raw material of nonbody experience.”

  “Recorders fix nature of absolute need: occupy—’Here’—Any cruelties answer him—Either unchanged or reverse—Clang—Sorry—Planet trailing somewhere along here—Sequential choice—Flesh plots con su medicina—The next state according to—Stop—Look—Form A directs sound channels—Well what now?—Final switch if you want to—Dead
on Life Form B by cutting off machine if you want to—Blood form determined by the switch—Same need—Same step—Not survive in any “emotion”—Intervention?—It’s no use I tell you—Familiar will be the end product?—Reciprocate complete wires? You fucking can’t—Could we become part of the array?—In the American Cemetery—Hard to distinguish maps came in at the verbal level—This he went to Madrid?—And so si learned? The accused was beyond altered arrival—So?—So mucus machine runs by feeding in over the American—Hear it?—Paralleled the bell—Hours late—They all went away—You’ve thought it out?—A whole replaced history of life burial tapes being blank?—Could this ‘you’ ‘them’ ‘whatever’ learn? Accused was beyond altered formations—No good—Machine runs by feeding in ‘useless’—Blood spilled over Grey Veil—Parallel spurt—How many looking at dirty pictures?—Before London Space Stage tenuous face maybe—Change—Definite—The disorder gets you model for behavior—Screams?—Laughter?”—Voice fading into advocate:

  “Clearly the whole defense must be experiments with two tape recorder mutations.”

  Again at the window that never was mine—Reflected word scrawled by some boy—Greatest of all waiting lapses—Five years—The ticket exploded in the air—For I don’t know—I do not know human dreams—Never was mine—Waiting lapse—Caught in the door—Explosive fragrance—Love between light and shadow—The few who lived cross the wounded galaxies—Love?—Five years I grew muttering in the ice—Dead sun reached flesh with its wandering dream—Buried tracks, Mr Bradly, so complete was the lie—Course—Naturally—Circumstances now Spanish—Hermetic you understand—Locked in her heart of ooze—A great undersea blight—Atlantis along the wind in green neon—The ooze is only colorless question drifted down—Obvious one at that—Its goal?—That’s more difficult to tap on the pane—One aspect of virus—An obvious one again—Muttering in the dogs for generalizations—The lice we intersect—Poison of dead sun anywhere else—What was it the old crab man said about the lice?—Parasites on “Mr Martin”—My ice my perfect ice that never circumstances—Now Spanish cautiously my eyes—And I became the form of a young man standing—My pulse in unison—Never did I know resting place—Wind hand caught in the door—cling—Chocada—to tap on the pane—

  Chocada—Again—Muttering in the dogs—Five years—Poison of dead sun with her—With whom?—I dunno—See account on the crooked crosses—And your name?—Berg?—Berg?—Bradly?—“Mr Martin si” Disaster Snow—Crack—Sahhk—Numb—Just a fluke came in with the tide and The Swedish River of Gothenberg—

  “I fancy,” said the man, “this gentleman feels totally stupid and greedy Venus Power—Tentacles write out message from stairway of slime—”

  “That’s us—Strictly from ‘Sogginess is Good for You’—Planning no bones but an elementary nervous system—Scarcely answer him—”

  “The case simply at terminal bring down point—Desperate servants suddenly taken out of their hands—Insane orders and counterorders on the horizon—And I playing psychic chess determined the whole civilization and personal habits—”

  “Iron claws of pain and pleasure with two speeds—with each recorder in body prison working our ‘here’ on extension leads—Even for an instant not in operation the host recorded saw the loudspeakers—Way is doomed in relatively soundproof’room’—Would shift door led to the array—Many recorders important for our oxygen lines—Each to use host connected to its respective recorder layout—For example with nine recorders determined the life form we invaded by three square—Each recorder marked for invasion recording—You see it’s only ‘here’ fixes nature of need set to run for as long as required—‘Indignities’ and ‘cruelties’ are playing back while other record—’Intimidate’ and ‘corrupt’ speed and volume variation—Squeeze host back into system—Any number of tape recorders banked together for ease of operation switch in other places—Our mikes are laid out preferably in ‘fresh air’—That’s us—Planning speaker and mike connected to host—Scarcely answer him—Of course static and moving are possible—Very simplest array would be three lines—Two speeds can be playing especially when a ‘case’ has four possible states—Fast manipulation suddenly taken out of slow playback—The actual advocate from biologic need in many ways—

  “a—Simple hand switching advocate

  “b—Random choice fixed interval biologic stairway—The whole thing is switched on either outright or partially—at any given time recorders fix nature of absolute need—Thus sound played back by any ‘cruelties’ answer him either unchanged or subject to alien plane—

  “c—Sequential choice i.e. flesh frozen to amino acid determines the next state according to”—That is a “book”—

  Form A directs sound channels—Continuous operation in such convenient Life Form B—Final switching off of tape cuts “oxygen” Life Form B by cutting off machine will produce cut-up of human form determined by the switching chosen—Totally alien “music” need not survive in any “emotion” due to the “oxygen” rendered down to a form of music—Intervention directing all movement what will be the end product?—Reciprocation detestable to us for how could we become part of the array?—Could this metal impression follow to present language learning?—Talking and listening machine led in and replaced—

  Life Form A as follows was an alien—The operator selects the most “oxygen” appropriate material continuous diving suit back to our medium—Ally information at the verbal level—Could he keep Form A seen parasitic?—Or could end be achieved by present interview?—Array treated as a whole replaced history of life? Word falling photo falling tapes being blank—Insane orders and counterorders of machine “music”—The Police Machine will produce a cut-up of it determined by the switching chosen—Could this alien mucus cough language learn? Accused was beyond altered sound formations—Alien Mucus Machine runs by feeding in overwhelming gravity—Code on Grey Veil parallel the spread of “dirty pictures”—Reverse instruction raises question how many convert in “dirty pictures” before London Space Stage—Tenuous simple repetition to one machine only—Coughing enemy pulled in whole could be used as a model for behavior—Screams laughter shouts raw material—Voice fading into advocate:

  “Clearly the whole defense must be experiments with two tape recorder mutations.”

  One faulty tape recorder . . . I’m almost out of medicine.

  A single injection of radioactive past times . . . train whistles . . . blue twilight . . . “I’m the only complete man in the industry,” he said. But, then, he noticed other people got on his frozen nerves a bit. . . . Well, that was easily enough taken care of: he can throw a black blast of antienergy withers a French waiter. Then, he noticed he had to keep throwing that blast to keep his cool, blue place. . . . Get up the score and send it back to the Home Office or: “Over and out!”

  When a Trak Agent walks out of the Board Room, the Board Members look after him and say: “Errand boy.” We are all “Coolies” and we need the cool that flows out when we all freeze into each other’s eyes and say: “Errand boy.” Then the cool flows out on a blue wave, cold and blue as liquid air swirling across dark bank floors, piling up in corners and vaults while a soft rain of bank notes falls through us. We sit there in our blue slate houses, wrapped in orange flesh robes that grow on us . . . now you understand about Time?

  Time is junk. Time is radioactive.

  There was something wrong with the house. The agent had not wished to show it or even admit he had such a house listed. It was his young assistant, Abdulla, who took us to #4 calle Larachi on the Marshan. (As he was getting out of the cab, the door slammed on his thumb.) We should have known. However, the house looked charming on a quiet side street shadowed by trees. We even thought the little Arab children were cute as they gathered about us smiling:

  “Fingaro? One cigarette?”

  The old bearded man who served as guard for the large villa across the street was, we decided, straight out of The Arabian Nights. The house seemed to be conveniently
laid out: two bedrooms facing the street and a bedroom in back with a window opening onto the garden of the next-door villa. This room bathed in a cool underwater green light, I immediately annexed for my own. The kitchen was dark, since the only light came from a high, grated window. The lavatory, located next to the kitchen, was simply a hole in the floor; not so different from the hotel in Paris. The floors were tiled . . . easy to keep clean. Upstairs was a large room running the length of the house with a balcony facing on the street; leaf shadows dancing on the white plaster walls. We would fix it up Arab style with benches and low coffee tables. This would be our reception room. There was a small cell-like room facing the back garden, with a single window like a square of blue set in the wall. The roof was flat and we planned a summer house up there of split bamboo with straw mats under trellised vines. I do not recall that I felt any twinges of foreboding on that remote summer day. (The young man’s thumbnail was already turning black.)

  We had been house hunting for two weeks and this was the first thing we had seen that seemed at all possible. Still, why had the agent been so reluctant to show it? A haunted house? As it turned out, the house was very precisely haunted and haunted by pre-sent time . . . the time when the flat roof would leak down the damp walls of flaking plaster where slugs would crawl, leaving iridescent trails of slime and green mold would form on my shoes and coat lapels . . . the dark kitchen stacked with dirty dishes . . . kerosene heaters smoking and gone out. The old man from The Arabian Nights coming to work for us . . . such a find, we thought. . . and stealing all the shirts and towels while always asking for more money. The naborhood children sneering and hostile, banging on the door to sell flowers or ask for cigarettes . . . throwing rocks through the skylight. . . children . . . beggars . . . someone always at the door, despising you if you gave money: insulting you if you didn’t. . .