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Junky
Junky, William S. Burroughs'un ilk eseri.
Altıkırkbeş Yayın'ın Türkçe'ye kazandırdığı eserin çevirisinde kitaba önemli tarihsel bir giriş de yazan Oliver Harris'in edit ettiği 50. Yıl Özel Baskısı baz alındı. Ek olarak Burroughs'un kitabın orijinal halinde yer verdiği lakin bu baskıya dek kitaba eklenmeyen "çıkartılmış" bölümler ile birlikte; Burroughs'un ilk basımına yazdığı ve yayımlanmayan önsözü, A. A Wyn'e mektubu ile 1952'de Allen Ginsberg'in "teşekkür" yazısı ve Carl Solomon'un yayıncısı olarak kitabın '53 ile '64 baskılarına yazdığı "önsöz" de yer alıyor.
Burroughs'un da alt başlığında belirttiği gibi, JunkY: "Eroin için eksiksiz bir metin."
Altıkırkbeş Yayın'ın Türkçe'ye kazandırdığı eserin çevirisinde kitaba önemli tarihsel bir giriş de yazan Oliver Harris'in edit ettiği 50. Yıl Özel Baskısı baz alındı. Ek olarak Burroughs'un kitabın orijinal halinde yer verdiği lakin bu baskıya dek kitaba eklenmeyen "çıkartılmış" bölümler ile birlikte; Burroughs'un ilk basımına yazdığı ve yayımlanmayan önsözü, A. A Wyn'e mektubu ile 1952'de Allen Ginsberg'in "teşekkür" yazısı ve Carl Solomon'un yayıncısı olarak kitabın '53 ile '64 baskılarına yazdığı "önsöz" de yer alıyor.
Burroughs'un da alt başlığında belirttiği gibi, JunkY: "Eroin için eksiksiz bir metin."
264 pages, Paperback
First published April 15, 1953
About the author
William S. Burroughs
390 books7,405 followersWilliam Seward Burroughs II, (also known by his pen name William Lee) was an American novelist, short story writer, essayist, painter, and spoken word performer.
A primary figure of the Beat Generation and a major postmodernist author, he is considered to be "one of the most politically trenchant, culturally influential, and innovative artists of the 20th century".
His influence is considered to have affected a range of popular culture as well as literature. Burroughs wrote 18 novels and novellas, six collections of short stories and four collections of essays.
Five books have been published of his interviews and correspondences. He also collaborated on projects and recordings with numerous performers and musicians, and made many appearances in films.
He was born to a wealthy family in St. Louis, Missouri, grandson of the inventor and founder of the Burroughs Corporation, William Seward Burroughs I, and nephew of public relations manager Ivy Lee. Burroughs began writing essays and journals in early adolescence. He left home in 1932 to attend Harvard University, studied English, and anthropology as a postgraduate, and later attended medical school in Vienna. After being turned down by the Office of Strategic Services and U.S. Navy in 1942 to serve in World War II, he dropped out and became afflicted with the drug addiction that affected him for the rest of his life, while working a variety of jobs. In 1943 while living in New York City, he befriended Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac, the mutually influential foundation of what became the countercultural movement of the Beat Generation.
Much of Burroughs's work is semi-autobiographical, primarily drawn from his experiences as a heroin addict, as he lived throughout Mexico City, London, Paris, Berlin, the South American Amazon and Tangier in Morocco. Finding success with his confessional first novel, Junkie (1953), Burroughs is perhaps best known for his third novel Naked Lunch (1959), a controversy-fraught work that underwent a court case under the U.S. sodomy laws. With Brion Gysin, he also popularized the literary cut-up technique in works such as The Nova Trilogy (1961–64). In 1983, Burroughs was elected to the American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters, and in 1984 was awarded the Ordre des Arts et des Lettres by France. Jack Kerouac called Burroughs the "greatest satirical writer since Jonathan Swift", a reputation he owes to his "lifelong subversion" of the moral, political and economic systems of modern American society, articulated in often darkly humorous sardonicism. J. G. Ballard considered Burroughs to be "the most important writer to emerge since the Second World War", while Norman Mailer declared him "the only American writer who may be conceivably possessed by genius".
Burroughs had one child, William Seward Burroughs III (1947-1981), with his second wife Joan Vollmer. Vollmer died in 1951 in Mexico City. Burroughs was convicted of manslaughter in Vollmer's death, an event that deeply permeated all of his writings. Burroughs died at his home in Lawrence, Kansas, after suffering a heart attack in 1997.
A primary figure of the Beat Generation and a major postmodernist author, he is considered to be "one of the most politically trenchant, culturally influential, and innovative artists of the 20th century".
His influence is considered to have affected a range of popular culture as well as literature. Burroughs wrote 18 novels and novellas, six collections of short stories and four collections of essays.
Five books have been published of his interviews and correspondences. He also collaborated on projects and recordings with numerous performers and musicians, and made many appearances in films.
He was born to a wealthy family in St. Louis, Missouri, grandson of the inventor and founder of the Burroughs Corporation, William Seward Burroughs I, and nephew of public relations manager Ivy Lee. Burroughs began writing essays and journals in early adolescence. He left home in 1932 to attend Harvard University, studied English, and anthropology as a postgraduate, and later attended medical school in Vienna. After being turned down by the Office of Strategic Services and U.S. Navy in 1942 to serve in World War II, he dropped out and became afflicted with the drug addiction that affected him for the rest of his life, while working a variety of jobs. In 1943 while living in New York City, he befriended Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac, the mutually influential foundation of what became the countercultural movement of the Beat Generation.
Much of Burroughs's work is semi-autobiographical, primarily drawn from his experiences as a heroin addict, as he lived throughout Mexico City, London, Paris, Berlin, the South American Amazon and Tangier in Morocco. Finding success with his confessional first novel, Junkie (1953), Burroughs is perhaps best known for his third novel Naked Lunch (1959), a controversy-fraught work that underwent a court case under the U.S. sodomy laws. With Brion Gysin, he also popularized the literary cut-up technique in works such as The Nova Trilogy (1961–64). In 1983, Burroughs was elected to the American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters, and in 1984 was awarded the Ordre des Arts et des Lettres by France. Jack Kerouac called Burroughs the "greatest satirical writer since Jonathan Swift", a reputation he owes to his "lifelong subversion" of the moral, political and economic systems of modern American society, articulated in often darkly humorous sardonicism. J. G. Ballard considered Burroughs to be "the most important writer to emerge since the Second World War", while Norman Mailer declared him "the only American writer who may be conceivably possessed by genius".
Burroughs had one child, William Seward Burroughs III (1947-1981), with his second wife Joan Vollmer. Vollmer died in 1951 in Mexico City. Burroughs was convicted of manslaughter in Vollmer's death, an event that deeply permeated all of his writings. Burroughs died at his home in Lawrence, Kansas, after suffering a heart attack in 1997.
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March 15, 2014
”Morphine hits the backs of the legs first, then the back of the neck, a spreading wave of relaxation slackening the muscles away from the bones so that you seem to float without outlines, like lying in warm salt water. As this relaxing wave spread through my tissues, I experienced a strong feeling of fear. I had the feeling that some horrible image was just beyond the field of vision, moving as I turned my head, so that I never quite saw it. I felt nauseous; I lay down and closed my eyes. A series of pictures passed, like watching a movie: A huge, neon-lighted cocktail bar that got larger and larger until streets, traffic, and street repairs were included in it; a waitress carrying a skull on a tray; stars in a clear sky. The physical impact of the fear of death; the shutting off of breath; the stopping of blood.”
William S. Burroughs shortly after shooting his wife Joan Vollmer in the head during a drunken version of William Tell. Were you just drunk Bill or were you on junk too?
Back in January of 2013 I decided to reread Naked Lunch. I hadn’t read Burroughs since college so the dim memories of the first read had very little impact on the second reading. It was like (a virgin) reading Burroughs for the very first time again. Readers have a wide range of opinions about Naked Lunch lurching from the ecstatic high of one of the best books they have ever read to believing the book to be perverted garbage. Burroughs would be thrilled with either reactions because that is what the book is about, creating a reaction. It is probably one of the most creative books I’ve read, but also a book that frequently made me very uncomfortable.
So given the success of my second reading of Naked Lunch I decided to read Burroughs first published work Junky (British title) or Junkie (American title). Burroughs insisted for a long time in calling the book Junk, but the publisher refused to put that label on the book believing that the American public might actually believe it to be just that...junk. Allen Ginsberg is the reason the book even exists. He’d been in correspondence with Burroughs and had been impressed by how intelligent and fascinating Bill’s letters were proving to be. Ginsberg insisted that Burroughs needed to thread his life, from those letters, into a book.
Allen Ginsberg, the man who was determined to see Junky in print.
Thus begins the odyssey of Junk/Junky/Junkie trying to make it into print.
”H and coke. You can smell it going in.”
Bill Lee, starts off selling a few caps to make some extra money. He has a small habit, but nothing more than recreational use. It is under control, more like going to see a movie once in a while or going out for a really good meal. Dealers, even small scale dealers like Bill, soon start to see the desperation of having a full blown habit.
”Doolie sick was an unnerving sight. The envelope of personality was gone, dissolved by his junk-hungry cells. Viscera and cells, galvanized into a loathsome insect-like activity, seemed on the point of breaking through the surface. His face was blurred, unrecognizable, at the same time shrunken and tumescent.”
Burroughs shooting up.
We all know someone odd, someone living an alternative bohemian lifestyle, someone floating in a constant haze of pharmaceutical diversion, but most of us know maybe one or two people that would fit that definition. Bill starts to know so many people that match that profile that it becomes normal.
”What a crew! Mooches, fags, four-flushers, stool pigeons, bums--unwilling to work, unable to steal, always short of money, always whining for credit. In the whole lot there was not one who wouldn’t wilt and spill as soon as someone belted him in the mouth and said “Where did you get it?”
And that is exactly what happens.
Bill gets picked up and it soon becomes apparent that a conviction is imminent. What was jamming Bill up was the Harrison Act of 1914. It was a tax meant to regulate the market, but was interpreted by the law as a way to prohibit the sale of opiates. William Burroughs’s uncle Horace committed suicide just days after the act was passed. He was addicted to morphine, the result of several medical procedures, and he couldn’t face the thought of living without the necessary solace of the drug.
A good lawyer gets Bill bail, based on his good family name, and Bill knowing he can’t handle jail heads for Mexico. Due to stress or just having the ready access to drugs soon has him becoming a full time junky. When he is on junk his sex drive is diminished, but when he is off the junk his libido becomes as all consuming as getting his next fix.
”Angelo’s face was Oriental, Japanese-looking, except for his copper skin. He was not queer, and I gave him money; always the same amount, twenty pesos. Sometimes I didn’t have that much and he would say ‘No importa.’ (It does not matter.) He insisted on sweeping the apartment out whenever he spent the night there.
Once I connected with Angelo, I did not go back to the Chimu. Mexico or stateside, queer bars brought me down.”
Bill likes boys, but he also likes girls, well...pros... like Mary.
”It you really want to bring a man down, light a cigarette in the middle of intercourse. Of course, I really don’t like men at all sexually. What I really dig is chicks. I get a kick out of taking a proud chick and breaking her spirit, making her see she is just an animal. A chick is never as beautiful after she’s been broken. ‘Say, this is sort of a fireside kick,’ she said, pointing to the radio which was the only light in the room.”
Both scenarios...Vintage Burroughs.
An Ace Original published in 1953. Burroughs made one cent on each copy sold. The book now sells in shabby condition for $450 and in collector’s condition for over a $1000.
So after a lot of arm twisting Ginsberg finally convinces the owner of Ace Books A. A. Wyn to publish Junkie. Wyn didn’t like the book, but his son Carl Solomon had done a stint with Ginsberg in a psychiatric hospital in New Jersey and was also lobbying hard for the book to be published. There is a good lesson to be learned here, always use every opportunity to make new connections whether you are in a loony bin or attending an upscale cocktail party. You may find the same people both places.
Ginsberg had the thankless job of editing the book and being the middleman between a disgruntled publisher and a more and more recalcitrant Burroughs. Ginsberg was soon the only person in the equation that even cared if the book made it to print. Finally his dream is realized and the book is published as a paperback original Ace Double or what we used to call in the book biz a 69. The other book on the flip side was Narcotic Agent by Maurice Helbrant which was a nonfiction account of busting drug dealers. Burroughs was at first furious at the pairing, but after reading the Helbrant book he grudgingly admitted it wasn’t too bad.
It is impossible to separate William S. Burroughs from Bill Lee (William Lee was his pen name and the name under which he published this book). The writing style in Junky is not anything like Naked Lunch. This book is very accessible, honestly told, and graphically realistic. You will meet a cast of characters with names like George the Greek, Pantopon Rose, Louie the Bellhop, Eric the Fag, the Beagle, the Sailor and Joe the Mex. You will come away from reading this book believing you have a better idea of Burroughs the man. He lived it and he didn’t pull any punches about what it means to be an addict.
”When you quit junk, everything seems flat, but you remember the shot schedule, the static horror of junk, your life draining into your arm three times a day. Every time exactly that much less. “
Being on junk is like resting in the arms of a beautiful woman, but if you stay on it too long those arms become withered and instead of looking into the face of angel you find yourself staring into the face of a toothless crone.
I’m hearing about this new kick called Yage. "Yage may be the final fix.”
If you haven't read my Naked Lunch review it is actually not too bad. Naked Lunch Review
If you wish to see more of my most recent book and movie reviews, visit http://www.jeffreykeeten.com
I also have a Facebook blogger page at:https://www.facebook.com/JeffreyKeeten
William S. Burroughs shortly after shooting his wife Joan Vollmer in the head during a drunken version of William Tell. Were you just drunk Bill or were you on junk too?
Back in January of 2013 I decided to reread Naked Lunch. I hadn’t read Burroughs since college so the dim memories of the first read had very little impact on the second reading. It was like (a virgin) reading Burroughs for the very first time again. Readers have a wide range of opinions about Naked Lunch lurching from the ecstatic high of one of the best books they have ever read to believing the book to be perverted garbage. Burroughs would be thrilled with either reactions because that is what the book is about, creating a reaction. It is probably one of the most creative books I’ve read, but also a book that frequently made me very uncomfortable.
So given the success of my second reading of Naked Lunch I decided to read Burroughs first published work Junky (British title) or Junkie (American title). Burroughs insisted for a long time in calling the book Junk, but the publisher refused to put that label on the book believing that the American public might actually believe it to be just that...junk. Allen Ginsberg is the reason the book even exists. He’d been in correspondence with Burroughs and had been impressed by how intelligent and fascinating Bill’s letters were proving to be. Ginsberg insisted that Burroughs needed to thread his life, from those letters, into a book.
Allen Ginsberg, the man who was determined to see Junky in print.
Thus begins the odyssey of Junk/Junky/Junkie trying to make it into print.
”H and coke. You can smell it going in.”
Bill Lee, starts off selling a few caps to make some extra money. He has a small habit, but nothing more than recreational use. It is under control, more like going to see a movie once in a while or going out for a really good meal. Dealers, even small scale dealers like Bill, soon start to see the desperation of having a full blown habit.
”Doolie sick was an unnerving sight. The envelope of personality was gone, dissolved by his junk-hungry cells. Viscera and cells, galvanized into a loathsome insect-like activity, seemed on the point of breaking through the surface. His face was blurred, unrecognizable, at the same time shrunken and tumescent.”
Burroughs shooting up.
We all know someone odd, someone living an alternative bohemian lifestyle, someone floating in a constant haze of pharmaceutical diversion, but most of us know maybe one or two people that would fit that definition. Bill starts to know so many people that match that profile that it becomes normal.
”What a crew! Mooches, fags, four-flushers, stool pigeons, bums--unwilling to work, unable to steal, always short of money, always whining for credit. In the whole lot there was not one who wouldn’t wilt and spill as soon as someone belted him in the mouth and said “Where did you get it?”
And that is exactly what happens.
Bill gets picked up and it soon becomes apparent that a conviction is imminent. What was jamming Bill up was the Harrison Act of 1914. It was a tax meant to regulate the market, but was interpreted by the law as a way to prohibit the sale of opiates. William Burroughs’s uncle Horace committed suicide just days after the act was passed. He was addicted to morphine, the result of several medical procedures, and he couldn’t face the thought of living without the necessary solace of the drug.
A good lawyer gets Bill bail, based on his good family name, and Bill knowing he can’t handle jail heads for Mexico. Due to stress or just having the ready access to drugs soon has him becoming a full time junky. When he is on junk his sex drive is diminished, but when he is off the junk his libido becomes as all consuming as getting his next fix.
”Angelo’s face was Oriental, Japanese-looking, except for his copper skin. He was not queer, and I gave him money; always the same amount, twenty pesos. Sometimes I didn’t have that much and he would say ‘No importa.’ (It does not matter.) He insisted on sweeping the apartment out whenever he spent the night there.
Once I connected with Angelo, I did not go back to the Chimu. Mexico or stateside, queer bars brought me down.”
Bill likes boys, but he also likes girls, well...pros... like Mary.
”It you really want to bring a man down, light a cigarette in the middle of intercourse. Of course, I really don’t like men at all sexually. What I really dig is chicks. I get a kick out of taking a proud chick and breaking her spirit, making her see she is just an animal. A chick is never as beautiful after she’s been broken. ‘Say, this is sort of a fireside kick,’ she said, pointing to the radio which was the only light in the room.”
Both scenarios...Vintage Burroughs.
An Ace Original published in 1953. Burroughs made one cent on each copy sold. The book now sells in shabby condition for $450 and in collector’s condition for over a $1000.
So after a lot of arm twisting Ginsberg finally convinces the owner of Ace Books A. A. Wyn to publish Junkie. Wyn didn’t like the book, but his son Carl Solomon had done a stint with Ginsberg in a psychiatric hospital in New Jersey and was also lobbying hard for the book to be published. There is a good lesson to be learned here, always use every opportunity to make new connections whether you are in a loony bin or attending an upscale cocktail party. You may find the same people both places.
Ginsberg had the thankless job of editing the book and being the middleman between a disgruntled publisher and a more and more recalcitrant Burroughs. Ginsberg was soon the only person in the equation that even cared if the book made it to print. Finally his dream is realized and the book is published as a paperback original Ace Double or what we used to call in the book biz a 69. The other book on the flip side was Narcotic Agent by Maurice Helbrant which was a nonfiction account of busting drug dealers. Burroughs was at first furious at the pairing, but after reading the Helbrant book he grudgingly admitted it wasn’t too bad.
It is impossible to separate William S. Burroughs from Bill Lee (William Lee was his pen name and the name under which he published this book). The writing style in Junky is not anything like Naked Lunch. This book is very accessible, honestly told, and graphically realistic. You will meet a cast of characters with names like George the Greek, Pantopon Rose, Louie the Bellhop, Eric the Fag, the Beagle, the Sailor and Joe the Mex. You will come away from reading this book believing you have a better idea of Burroughs the man. He lived it and he didn’t pull any punches about what it means to be an addict.
”When you quit junk, everything seems flat, but you remember the shot schedule, the static horror of junk, your life draining into your arm three times a day. Every time exactly that much less. “
Being on junk is like resting in the arms of a beautiful woman, but if you stay on it too long those arms become withered and instead of looking into the face of angel you find yourself staring into the face of a toothless crone.
I’m hearing about this new kick called Yage. "Yage may be the final fix.”
If you haven't read my Naked Lunch review it is actually not too bad. Naked Lunch Review
If you wish to see more of my most recent book and movie reviews, visit http://www.jeffreykeeten.com
I also have a Facebook blogger page at:https://www.facebook.com/JeffreyKeeten
February 19, 2020
LA SCIMMIA SULLA SCHIENA
Di fatto il libro è l’unico documento esistente sul vero orrore dell’eroina. Non è da intendersi né come una giustificazione né come un deterrente, ma semplicemente come la cosa più sincera che sono riuscito a scrivere su quel periodo della mia vita. In realtà più d’ogni altra cosa è un resoconto di viaggio. Inizia nel momento in cui ho stabilito il mio primo contatto con l’eroina e finisce quando andare avanti era diventato impossibile.
Così scriveva Burroughs all’amico Allen Ginsberg.
”The Junky’s Christmas” cortometraggio di Nick Donkin and Melodie McDaniel tratto da un racconto di Burroughs.
Il junky, o junkie, è il tossico, il drogato, spazzatura umana, scarto.
La scimmia sulla schiena, che è come il romanzo è stato intitolato in italiano, è l’effetto dell’astinenza, quando cominciano i dolori alla schiena.
E siccome nel caso di Burroughs la droga era eroina e morfina, entrambe con effetto anestetico, si può provare a immaginare che razza di dolori alla schiena potesse provare.
Copertina di un’altra edizione Penguin seguente alla mia.
E se si pensa che il suo promotore pseudo agente letterario all’epoca era Allen Ginsberg, che in quel periodo era reduce da otto mesi di manicomio, credo che il quadro sia completo. Manca solo Kerouac, e poi la Beat Generation c’è tutta ai massimi livelli.
L’editore scovato da Ginsberg, amico e parente di amici, pagò a Bill (William Burroughs) 250$ di anticipo sul prossimo romanzo, e si può immaginare come Bill adoperò quei soldi.
All’epoca (inizio anni Cinquanta) eroina e morfina si compravano con ricetta medica in farmacia. Burroughs doveva architettare scuse spiegazioni e false ricette, ma comunque riusciva a procurarsi con più o meno regolarità le sue dosi quotidiane: però, essere beccato a parlare anche in modo traslato di droga poteva farti finire in prigione.
Questo spiega il prologo dove Bill diventa William Lee, proclamandosi di buona famiglia, con tono moralistico prende le distanze dal mondo della droga, nel quale lui si trova per sbaglio e solo momentaneamente, perché è un periodo duro, difficile…: una necessità imposta dall’editore perché l’argomento era tabù. Per evitare censura fu pubblicato collegato (paga 1, prendi 2) a un altro libro sull’argomento, questo però scritto da un ex agente della Narcotici.
William S. Burroughs con Jack Kerouac.
Romanzo-saggio, il primo di Burroughs (pubblicato nel 1953), in gran parte autobiografico dove il racconto attinge all’esperienza diretta, alla conoscenza in prima persona, scritto con lucidità, senza illusione, senza esaltazione, quasi con approccio scientifico. Più che sullo sballo, è sulla dipendenza, e ancor di più sull’astinenza. Per molti lo scopo per andare avanti e continuare a vivere è l’amore, la famiglia, la carriera, il successo, l’arte: per il junky è l’eroina. Uno scopo come gli altri, ma più letale.
Antropologia dell’eroina.
Le scimmie sulla stele.
È forse il più lineare dei suoi romanzi che ho letto, quello che non insegue una scrittura elaborata (cut-up), e non cerca di sovvertire il confine tra conscio e inconscio (anche se qua e là ci sono brevi visioni di millepiedi giganti). Procede con linguaggio nudo e crudo non lontano da un beffardo hard boiled. Racconta infelici passioni omosessuali e vivi incontri con prostitute e anime sofferenti.
E diventa anche un quadro degli Stati Uniti dell’epoca dove trionfava una morale falsa, repressiva, ottusa.
La droga non è, come l’alcool o come la marijuana, un mezzo per intensificare il godimento della vita. La droga non è euforia. È un modo di vivere.
Di fatto il libro è l’unico documento esistente sul vero orrore dell’eroina. Non è da intendersi né come una giustificazione né come un deterrente, ma semplicemente come la cosa più sincera che sono riuscito a scrivere su quel periodo della mia vita. In realtà più d’ogni altra cosa è un resoconto di viaggio. Inizia nel momento in cui ho stabilito il mio primo contatto con l’eroina e finisce quando andare avanti era diventato impossibile.
Così scriveva Burroughs all’amico Allen Ginsberg.
”The Junky’s Christmas” cortometraggio di Nick Donkin and Melodie McDaniel tratto da un racconto di Burroughs.
Il junky, o junkie, è il tossico, il drogato, spazzatura umana, scarto.
La scimmia sulla schiena, che è come il romanzo è stato intitolato in italiano, è l’effetto dell’astinenza, quando cominciano i dolori alla schiena.
E siccome nel caso di Burroughs la droga era eroina e morfina, entrambe con effetto anestetico, si può provare a immaginare che razza di dolori alla schiena potesse provare.
Copertina di un’altra edizione Penguin seguente alla mia.
E se si pensa che il suo promotore pseudo agente letterario all’epoca era Allen Ginsberg, che in quel periodo era reduce da otto mesi di manicomio, credo che il quadro sia completo. Manca solo Kerouac, e poi la Beat Generation c’è tutta ai massimi livelli.
L’editore scovato da Ginsberg, amico e parente di amici, pagò a Bill (William Burroughs) 250$ di anticipo sul prossimo romanzo, e si può immaginare come Bill adoperò quei soldi.
All’epoca (inizio anni Cinquanta) eroina e morfina si compravano con ricetta medica in farmacia. Burroughs doveva architettare scuse spiegazioni e false ricette, ma comunque riusciva a procurarsi con più o meno regolarità le sue dosi quotidiane: però, essere beccato a parlare anche in modo traslato di droga poteva farti finire in prigione.
Questo spiega il prologo dove Bill diventa William Lee, proclamandosi di buona famiglia, con tono moralistico prende le distanze dal mondo della droga, nel quale lui si trova per sbaglio e solo momentaneamente, perché è un periodo duro, difficile…: una necessità imposta dall’editore perché l’argomento era tabù. Per evitare censura fu pubblicato collegato (paga 1, prendi 2) a un altro libro sull’argomento, questo però scritto da un ex agente della Narcotici.
William S. Burroughs con Jack Kerouac.
Romanzo-saggio, il primo di Burroughs (pubblicato nel 1953), in gran parte autobiografico dove il racconto attinge all’esperienza diretta, alla conoscenza in prima persona, scritto con lucidità, senza illusione, senza esaltazione, quasi con approccio scientifico. Più che sullo sballo, è sulla dipendenza, e ancor di più sull’astinenza. Per molti lo scopo per andare avanti e continuare a vivere è l’amore, la famiglia, la carriera, il successo, l’arte: per il junky è l’eroina. Uno scopo come gli altri, ma più letale.
Antropologia dell’eroina.
Le scimmie sulla stele.
È forse il più lineare dei suoi romanzi che ho letto, quello che non insegue una scrittura elaborata (cut-up), e non cerca di sovvertire il confine tra conscio e inconscio (anche se qua e là ci sono brevi visioni di millepiedi giganti). Procede con linguaggio nudo e crudo non lontano da un beffardo hard boiled. Racconta infelici passioni omosessuali e vivi incontri con prostitute e anime sofferenti.
E diventa anche un quadro degli Stati Uniti dell’epoca dove trionfava una morale falsa, repressiva, ottusa.
La droga non è, come l’alcool o come la marijuana, un mezzo per intensificare il godimento della vita. La droga non è euforia. È un modo di vivere.
March 12, 2023
Junky is a raw, honest, and surprisingly poetic look into the life of addiction. Written with stark clarity and a cool, detached tone, Burroughs doesn’t romanticize or condemn he simply tells it like it is. The book offers a unique perspective, combining gritty realism with sharp social insight. It's a quick, powerful read that leaves a lasting impression. A must for anyone interested in Beat literature or the complexities of human experience.
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December 11, 2007
I think I prefer looking at this text in its original light: a sensationalized, dime-store paperback about junkies. I just can't take this type of work too seriously. I've met so many people who hail Burroughs as genius and I have yet to find out why. While he offers a grisly account of opiate addiction, it's hard for me to say that Junky is an important piece of literature. It spawned many copy cat memoirs and was influential to the genre of confessional fiction, which I find to be overrated.
November 5, 2017
Less flouncy/convoluted and real(istic?) than Naked Lunch or Queer. (True masterpieces these.) Oddly straightforward--espesh for a first novel--it valiantly emerges as some sort of sad recounting of events in all their incendiary yet undoubted existence. So brave, so brave coming out as gay; but for a literary juggernaut, the honest truth of drug addiction MUST be depicted... & that Truth is the passport to the future glories (the aforementioned novels).
Articulate clear-headedness here (not including however the stooge-like attitude which is adopted by Burroughs as he detoxifies sporadically through the years) definitely accentuates the entire experience (it seems to me Burroughs is an event: you cannot avoid its literary & personal worth).
The brain tries to find meaning in the junkie limbo. Junky is a survival story; some night-long brutal anecdote of one hellish past. Here: avant gardism is found in the Motley Crew of malcontents (users, pushers, rehab-ers, robbers, victims, victims, vic...) an encyclopedic index of sorts. (Novel in Lexicon. See: Dictionary of the Khazars--M. Pavic.) Burroughs is indeed the true King of the Beats (ya know, the dudes who hardly ever mentioned their wives in their self-important exploits). And I am more than satisfied by the concrete truth.
Articulate clear-headedness here (not including however the stooge-like attitude which is adopted by Burroughs as he detoxifies sporadically through the years) definitely accentuates the entire experience (it seems to me Burroughs is an event: you cannot avoid its literary & personal worth).
The brain tries to find meaning in the junkie limbo. Junky is a survival story; some night-long brutal anecdote of one hellish past. Here: avant gardism is found in the Motley Crew of malcontents (users, pushers, rehab-ers, robbers, victims, victims, vic...) an encyclopedic index of sorts. (Novel in Lexicon. See: Dictionary of the Khazars--M. Pavic.) Burroughs is indeed the true King of the Beats (ya know, the dudes who hardly ever mentioned their wives in their self-important exploits). And I am more than satisfied by the concrete truth.
July 21, 2016
I read this while in rehab so as you can imagine it held a very special place in my heart. This is a crazy, self- indulgent, occasionally offensive defence of the junkie lifestyle. The author never really managed to break free from his addiction and despite his hatred for all things government and society died dependent on govt. administered methadone. It's unapologetic. It's hilarious. And when you finish the book you can't help but be struck by the tragedy of addiction despite the crazy ride you just enjoyed.
What I loved about this was that it was a real addict describing their experiences in very "fuck off with your sympathy and your judgement" terms.
I hate the modern poverty porn obsession where middle aged white women spend all their time reading tear jerkers about sexually abused kids and recovering junkies. These stories take real experiences and they tell lies with it.
It's unbearable for anyone who has actually experienced it, and it promotes stereotypes that are harmful.
This book does none of that. It also doesn't make drug abuse look cool. A modern day equivalent might be Bojack Horseman if Bojack wasn't filthy rich.
I loved it. And it's super short so if you don't like it, you haven't wasted much time with it.
What I loved about this was that it was a real addict describing their experiences in very "fuck off with your sympathy and your judgement" terms.
I hate the modern poverty porn obsession where middle aged white women spend all their time reading tear jerkers about sexually abused kids and recovering junkies. These stories take real experiences and they tell lies with it.
It's unbearable for anyone who has actually experienced it, and it promotes stereotypes that are harmful.
This book does none of that. It also doesn't make drug abuse look cool. A modern day equivalent might be Bojack Horseman if Bojack wasn't filthy rich.
I loved it. And it's super short so if you don't like it, you haven't wasted much time with it.
January 11, 2015
Okay, I can see the artistic merit in this novel. Burroughs's prose is lean, cool and convincingly realistic. He’s good with (mostly brief, introductory) characterization and telling of anecdotes. He knows his material, the drugs that is. And yet, there was absolutely nothing that held my attention as I kept reading the book. This novel was completely focused on drugs – the quest for them, the dealing, the administering – and in a tediously technical way. There are absolutely no digressions. In this very brief book new characters appeared and disappeared on every second page. I felt like I was in a zoo, shown around a variety of exotic animals (that weren’t that exotic for me after all the books I’d already read about the world of addiction). The utter lack of emotion from the writer/narrator made the reading particularly uninspiring. As one reviewer suggested, this book was ‘journalistic’. I know this novel was innovative for its time and refreshingly honest then. For me, though, it was sheer boredom.
January 26, 2025
“Junky” is a promise and a warning. The warm bath of morphine intoxication is juxtaposed with the horror of addiction, the agony of withdrawal and the loss of the addict's ego. William S. Burroughs conceals nothing, glosses over nothing and yet tells succinctly, almost in a conversational tone, of blood in the needle, of nightmares, of humiliation and madness.
Many of the small scenes seem redundant and yet reflect the life of the addict. After all, what else could it be but the nauseating glide along a downward spiral at the end of which not fulfillment but the painful greed for the next fulfillment awaits? All the petty and grand criminal acts that go hand in hand with addiction, the fleeting acquaintances, the tricks and false pleasures - they don't disguise the fact that this is about something much more fundamental: the desperate search of a restless, bored soul for the feeling of being alive. And at some point, this feeling can only be grasped on the brink of death.
Many of the small scenes seem redundant and yet reflect the life of the addict. After all, what else could it be but the nauseating glide along a downward spiral at the end of which not fulfillment but the painful greed for the next fulfillment awaits? All the petty and grand criminal acts that go hand in hand with addiction, the fleeting acquaintances, the tricks and false pleasures - they don't disguise the fact that this is about something much more fundamental: the desperate search of a restless, bored soul for the feeling of being alive. And at some point, this feeling can only be grasped on the brink of death.
July 28, 2011
Mmm mmm drugs. Yummy. Like adult smarties with extra kick and an added naughty factor.
Ok, that is not strictly true but you have to admit that sometimes it is difficult to pick your way through the troubled and varied history of drugs culture in literature. Drugs good? Drugs bad? Drugs indifferent? You're cool. Or not cool. Or an addict or a victim. See? Confusing.
Lets look back through the literature - Coleridge, De Quincey, Kerouac, Thompson and the production of wondrous drugs madness such as Fear and Loathing and Trainspotting - see, there's never really been a great poster child for hardcore drug addiction and not many happy endings (aside from the ones which involve selling yourself on the street to get cash for your hash and even then it's not your happy ending but someone elses).
Personally the imbibing of large quantities of narcotics has never made it on to my priorities list, never mind been anywhere near the top of it. The way I see it, the world is suitably weird enough already without trying to work out what the fuck is going on through a haze of chemicals. I have enough problems on a good day, even when I used to use caffeine and nicotine as my fuel of choice things were confusing/annoying/inexplicable and that was just the people I had to interact with. Maybe I'm interacting with the wrong people? Possibly. I did used to work with someone who enjoyed the heady combination of taking Speed and driving very large bits of dangerous machinery (this was his actual job- he didn't just nip out and steal it). Amusing to watch but you always needed to be at least 50m away to safely observe this without getting your head removed from your shoulders and conversation was not ever on the menu, well not in any sensible format anyway.
Burroughs on the other hand manages to present his Junky lifestyle in a nice lucid epistolary format. Which is probably a pretty good indication that he wasn't high as kite when he wrote a lot of this. Is that cheating? He manages to get across the hapless, seedy, chancer side of his existence which is, on the surface, a rootless one which sees him drift from place to place with an motley assortment of characters who are all intent on scoring Junk or any other chemicals which will help stave off the Junk craving. This rootlessness does seem to be a bit of a sham though because half way through we get the after-thought mentioning of his family back home. Yup Mrs B and the kids are back home waiting for pops to turn up.
Now much like when I read Kerouac, if I'd read this as a 15 year old too I'd have been all "hells yeah, do what you want and don't be pinned down by convention..." As someone of double that age I re-read Kerouac and though, hmmm you're a bit of a dick really aren't you. Similar thoughts passed through my head about Burroughs at this point. Burroughs does try to get clean at several points in the story and always fails spectacularly to stay on the wagon but he is very sanguine about this and he doesn't attempt to glamorize drug use. Being strung out and scrabbling about in the streets filching off fellow addicts is not a recommended way of life but it does make for excellent reading.
Ok, that is not strictly true but you have to admit that sometimes it is difficult to pick your way through the troubled and varied history of drugs culture in literature. Drugs good? Drugs bad? Drugs indifferent? You're cool. Or not cool. Or an addict or a victim. See? Confusing.
Lets look back through the literature - Coleridge, De Quincey, Kerouac, Thompson and the production of wondrous drugs madness such as Fear and Loathing and Trainspotting - see, there's never really been a great poster child for hardcore drug addiction and not many happy endings (aside from the ones which involve selling yourself on the street to get cash for your hash and even then it's not your happy ending but someone elses).
Personally the imbibing of large quantities of narcotics has never made it on to my priorities list, never mind been anywhere near the top of it. The way I see it, the world is suitably weird enough already without trying to work out what the fuck is going on through a haze of chemicals. I have enough problems on a good day, even when I used to use caffeine and nicotine as my fuel of choice things were confusing/annoying/inexplicable and that was just the people I had to interact with. Maybe I'm interacting with the wrong people? Possibly. I did used to work with someone who enjoyed the heady combination of taking Speed and driving very large bits of dangerous machinery (this was his actual job- he didn't just nip out and steal it). Amusing to watch but you always needed to be at least 50m away to safely observe this without getting your head removed from your shoulders and conversation was not ever on the menu, well not in any sensible format anyway.
Burroughs on the other hand manages to present his Junky lifestyle in a nice lucid epistolary format. Which is probably a pretty good indication that he wasn't high as kite when he wrote a lot of this. Is that cheating? He manages to get across the hapless, seedy, chancer side of his existence which is, on the surface, a rootless one which sees him drift from place to place with an motley assortment of characters who are all intent on scoring Junk or any other chemicals which will help stave off the Junk craving. This rootlessness does seem to be a bit of a sham though because half way through we get the after-thought mentioning of his family back home. Yup Mrs B and the kids are back home waiting for pops to turn up.
Now much like when I read Kerouac, if I'd read this as a 15 year old too I'd have been all "hells yeah, do what you want and don't be pinned down by convention..." As someone of double that age I re-read Kerouac and though, hmmm you're a bit of a dick really aren't you. Similar thoughts passed through my head about Burroughs at this point. Burroughs does try to get clean at several points in the story and always fails spectacularly to stay on the wagon but he is very sanguine about this and he doesn't attempt to glamorize drug use. Being strung out and scrabbling about in the streets filching off fellow addicts is not a recommended way of life but it does make for excellent reading.
October 9, 2018
من أراد أن يقرأ رواية متكاملة عن عالم الأدمان ورحلة الخلاص منه، فالرواية الحالية هي الخيار الأمثل
April 19, 2021
First published as a pulp novel as other publishers didn't dare to put it out into the world, Burroughs' largely autobiographical account talks about his descent into addiction, his criminal career and the cycle of withdrawal and relapse. In dry, laconic language, the author turns away from the romanticization of drug as tools to expand the mind; rather, he shows opioid consumption (junk as opposed to psychedelic drugs) as an all-encompassing, pervasive lifestyle which, just as mirrored in Burroughs' narrative routines, completely overtakes the junky. At the same time, Burroughs doesn't judge or give a moral perspective, which renders the text all the more raw, honest and captivating.
It's funny that this was deemed unpublishable for such a long time, as it is probably the most straightforward, accessible text the author has ever produced. While reflecting Burroughs' love for hardboiled novels, it often reads like a reportage that states a bleak reality, centering on the opinion that a person becomes a junky because of the lack of passion for other lifestyle choices, per default. Burroughs writes the darkes beat literature available.
A classic that is much easier to stomach than the experimental novel that overshadows it, Naked Lunch.
It's funny that this was deemed unpublishable for such a long time, as it is probably the most straightforward, accessible text the author has ever produced. While reflecting Burroughs' love for hardboiled novels, it often reads like a reportage that states a bleak reality, centering on the opinion that a person becomes a junky because of the lack of passion for other lifestyle choices, per default. Burroughs writes the darkes beat literature available.
A classic that is much easier to stomach than the experimental novel that overshadows it, Naked Lunch.
June 3, 2024
¿Y si el infierno fuera más aburrido que aterrador? ¿Y si, en lugar de gritos y llamas, todo oliera a desinfectante barato, a sudor rancio y a desesperación diluida en metadona?
William S. Burroughs publica Yonqui, esa especie de diario clínico de una caída sin red, en 1953. Y lo hace casi por accidente, como quien se deshace de una prueba inculpatoria. Es el primer vómito literario de alguien que ni siquiera estaba seguro de querer explicarse. No es una novela en el sentido clásico: no hay clímax, no hay redención, ni siquiera un intento claro de construir un personaje entrañable. Lo que hay, eso sí, es una voz —seca, distante, casi médica— que nos guía por los sótanos de la adicción con una lucidez que da miedo. Yonqui no intenta conmoverte. No hay lágrimas. No hay música triste. Solo el zumbido constante del sistema nervioso descomponiéndose, y un narrador que lo relata todo como si estuviera escribiendo un informe, no una confesión.
La historia —porque algo de historia hay— sigue a William Lee, alter ego de Burroughs, desde Nueva York hasta la frontera con México, en una ruta que es más mental que geográfica. Pero lo que importa aquí no es el viaje físico, sino el mapa del deterioro, de la obsesión con la aguja, con el polvo, con ese momento suspendido en el que todo deja de doler... para volver a doler más tarde. Lee no se explica, no se justifica, no pide perdón. Solo observa. A veces parece que ni siquiera siente. Y ese es el truco más inquietante del libro: la indiferencia.
Y lo peor es que esa indiferencia no se queda en el personaje, se mete en las frases, se cuela en cada coma. Burroughs escribe con una frialdad metódica, como quien redacta partes de guerra: sin adjetivos de más, sin juicios. Una prosa tan fría que si la tocas, te quemas. Frases limpias, desinfectadas. Tan neutras que parecen clínicamente muertas. Es un lenguaje que no intenta embellecer ni dramatizar; todo lo contrario. Narra la adicción como quien describe el montaje de un mueble de Ikea: paso uno, busca al camello. Paso dos, calienta la cuchara. Paso tres, desaparece. Hay una precisión casi entomológica, como si estuviera diseccionando su propio cadáver mientras aún respira. Y ese desapego, lejos de alejarte, te atrapa. Porque sabes que no hay adorno, no hay pose. Solo hay verdad. Cruda, sucia, casi burocrática.
Pero lo más perverso es que Yonqui no es una novela sobre la droga en sí, sino sobre la necesidad. No es solo la heroína: es la rutina, la búsqueda, la ansiedad del vacío. Hay algo monástico en el modo en que Lee organiza su vida en torno a la próxima dosis. No hay caos, hay método. Y eso es lo más terrorífico. El yonqui no es un loco descontrolado. Es un oficinista del dolor, alguien que ha hecho de su adicción un sistema operativo. En eso recuerda a El jugador de Dostoievski, donde la dependencia también tiene reglas, cálculos, rituales. Pero donde en Dostoievski hay un pulso de desesperación luminosa, aquí solo hay una maquinaria de sombras sin respiro ni gracia.
Los personajes secundarios —y sería generoso llamarlos así— no importan por quiénes son, sino por lo que representan. Son sombras que entran y salen, sin historia, sin identidad, como los extras de una película porno que nadie recuerda. A veces ni siquiera necesitan una frase para existir: un gesto, una mirada, una línea maldita y ya están definidos. Burroughs no los describe; los deja caer. Y el lector los reconoce al instante, como si se los hubiera cruzado mil veces en una noche larga de resaca. Incluso cuando hablan, lo hacen como si pasaran lista: frases secas, administrativas, casi telegrafiadas. Pero si te fijas, lo que está en juego no es solo el próximo chute, sino una crítica soterrada al sistema judicial, a la policía, a ese teatro absurdo que finge perseguir al narcotráfico mientras se ensaña con los que ya están en el suelo. En algún momento uno se pregunta si no son, en realidad, fragmentos del propio Burroughs, delirios multiplicados de su yo en retirada.
Todo en la novela está atravesado por esa lógica del derrumbe. Y esa misma descomposición se filtra en la estructura del libro. Yonqui es una especie de memoria dispersa, más cercana al cuaderno de campo que a la narrativa tradicional. No hay trama porque no hay progreso. Solo recaídas, huidas, silencios. Es un libro que parece escrito en los márgenes de otro libro que nunca se llegó a escribir. Y sin embargo, funciona. Porque esa falta de estructura es el espejo exacto del mundo que retrata. Caótico, sin centro, sin propósito. Como si el propio lenguaje estuviera enfermo.
Y sin embargo, cuando uno termina, la sensación es otra. Porque tras ese desfile de fantasmas burocráticos, lo que queda no es una novela, sino una radiografía. Aunque comparado con el resto de la obra de Burroughs, Yonqui resulta casi convencional. Después vendrán El almuerzo desnudo y su delirio lisérgico, sus híbridos de ciencia ficción, sexo y entropía. Pero aquí todavía estamos en la fase clínica. No hay collage, ni automatismo, ni criaturas mutantes. Solo una voz que observa. Si Burroughs fuera pintor, Yonqui sería un boceto hiperrealista antes del estallido abstracto. Pero incluso ese boceto ya está contaminado. No hay moral, no hay denuncia, no hay moraleja. Solo un espejo. Turbio pero revelador.
¿Se puede comparar con otras novelas sobre adicción? Tal vez con En el camino de Kerouac pero sin la euforia. Aquí no hay beatitudes ni libertad, solo servidumbre. Yonqui es el reverso absoluto del romanticismo drogadicto: no hay glamour, solo rutina. Si Trainspotting es una rave con cuchillas, esto es un ambulatorio donde nadie pregunta tu nombre. Y si uno lo piensa bien, Burroughs ya anticipa esa estética mucho antes de que Irvine Welsh naciera: la del cuerpo como cárcel y la mente como celador ausente.
Pero también hay algo profundamente americano en Yonqui: esa compulsión de registrarlo todo, incluso lo que debería permanecer oculto. La droga como fenómeno social, como mercado, como jerga, como institución. Y el adicto como microempresario de su propio deterioro. A ratos parece que has leído más sobre precios, dosis y calidades que en cualquier tratado económico. Y eso es parte de su rareza: la adicción como economía sumergida. El yonqui como pequeño capitalista del olvido.
Lo que queda, al final, es una sensación extraña. No hay admiración ni repulsión. No hay apología. No hay mensaje. Solo un desmontaje meticuloso de esa pedagogía del miedo que te contaban en el colegio: que un solo chute bastaba para perderte para siempre. Burroughs lo desarma sin dramatismo, con hechos desnudos y una lucidez que hiela. Hay una especie de respeto helado aquí. Como si hubieras asistido a una confesión sin lágrimas, sin culpa, sin redención. Solo alguien que te dice: esto es lo que soy. Y tú, como lector, lo aceptas. No porque lo entiendas, sino porque no puedes negarlo. Burroughs no moraliza. Solo apunta. Y en esa frialdad hay una afirmación brutal: esto también es libertad. Yonqui es eso: un testimonio que no pide ser creído ni amado. Solo leído. Y en ese gesto, seco y honesto, hay más literatura que en muchas novelas llenas de adornos y buenos sentimientos.
Así que sí, quizá el infierno no tenga gritos. Quizá huela a éter y tenga lámparas fluorescentes. Y quizá Burroughs, con su voz de notario del abismo, nos lo haya mostrado como nadie. Burroughs no te dice lo que está bien. Solo te recuerda que la libertad, si es real, también incluye el derecho a arruinarte tú solito. Sin gritar, sin llorar. Solo escribiendo. Porque a veces la verdad más insoportable no necesita dramatismo. Solo alguien que no parpadee mientras la cuenta.
William S. Burroughs publica Yonqui, esa especie de diario clínico de una caída sin red, en 1953. Y lo hace casi por accidente, como quien se deshace de una prueba inculpatoria. Es el primer vómito literario de alguien que ni siquiera estaba seguro de querer explicarse. No es una novela en el sentido clásico: no hay clímax, no hay redención, ni siquiera un intento claro de construir un personaje entrañable. Lo que hay, eso sí, es una voz —seca, distante, casi médica— que nos guía por los sótanos de la adicción con una lucidez que da miedo. Yonqui no intenta conmoverte. No hay lágrimas. No hay música triste. Solo el zumbido constante del sistema nervioso descomponiéndose, y un narrador que lo relata todo como si estuviera escribiendo un informe, no una confesión.
La historia —porque algo de historia hay— sigue a William Lee, alter ego de Burroughs, desde Nueva York hasta la frontera con México, en una ruta que es más mental que geográfica. Pero lo que importa aquí no es el viaje físico, sino el mapa del deterioro, de la obsesión con la aguja, con el polvo, con ese momento suspendido en el que todo deja de doler... para volver a doler más tarde. Lee no se explica, no se justifica, no pide perdón. Solo observa. A veces parece que ni siquiera siente. Y ese es el truco más inquietante del libro: la indiferencia.
Y lo peor es que esa indiferencia no se queda en el personaje, se mete en las frases, se cuela en cada coma. Burroughs escribe con una frialdad metódica, como quien redacta partes de guerra: sin adjetivos de más, sin juicios. Una prosa tan fría que si la tocas, te quemas. Frases limpias, desinfectadas. Tan neutras que parecen clínicamente muertas. Es un lenguaje que no intenta embellecer ni dramatizar; todo lo contrario. Narra la adicción como quien describe el montaje de un mueble de Ikea: paso uno, busca al camello. Paso dos, calienta la cuchara. Paso tres, desaparece. Hay una precisión casi entomológica, como si estuviera diseccionando su propio cadáver mientras aún respira. Y ese desapego, lejos de alejarte, te atrapa. Porque sabes que no hay adorno, no hay pose. Solo hay verdad. Cruda, sucia, casi burocrática.
Pero lo más perverso es que Yonqui no es una novela sobre la droga en sí, sino sobre la necesidad. No es solo la heroína: es la rutina, la búsqueda, la ansiedad del vacío. Hay algo monástico en el modo en que Lee organiza su vida en torno a la próxima dosis. No hay caos, hay método. Y eso es lo más terrorífico. El yonqui no es un loco descontrolado. Es un oficinista del dolor, alguien que ha hecho de su adicción un sistema operativo. En eso recuerda a El jugador de Dostoievski, donde la dependencia también tiene reglas, cálculos, rituales. Pero donde en Dostoievski hay un pulso de desesperación luminosa, aquí solo hay una maquinaria de sombras sin respiro ni gracia.
Los personajes secundarios —y sería generoso llamarlos así— no importan por quiénes son, sino por lo que representan. Son sombras que entran y salen, sin historia, sin identidad, como los extras de una película porno que nadie recuerda. A veces ni siquiera necesitan una frase para existir: un gesto, una mirada, una línea maldita y ya están definidos. Burroughs no los describe; los deja caer. Y el lector los reconoce al instante, como si se los hubiera cruzado mil veces en una noche larga de resaca. Incluso cuando hablan, lo hacen como si pasaran lista: frases secas, administrativas, casi telegrafiadas. Pero si te fijas, lo que está en juego no es solo el próximo chute, sino una crítica soterrada al sistema judicial, a la policía, a ese teatro absurdo que finge perseguir al narcotráfico mientras se ensaña con los que ya están en el suelo. En algún momento uno se pregunta si no son, en realidad, fragmentos del propio Burroughs, delirios multiplicados de su yo en retirada.
Todo en la novela está atravesado por esa lógica del derrumbe. Y esa misma descomposición se filtra en la estructura del libro. Yonqui es una especie de memoria dispersa, más cercana al cuaderno de campo que a la narrativa tradicional. No hay trama porque no hay progreso. Solo recaídas, huidas, silencios. Es un libro que parece escrito en los márgenes de otro libro que nunca se llegó a escribir. Y sin embargo, funciona. Porque esa falta de estructura es el espejo exacto del mundo que retrata. Caótico, sin centro, sin propósito. Como si el propio lenguaje estuviera enfermo.
Y sin embargo, cuando uno termina, la sensación es otra. Porque tras ese desfile de fantasmas burocráticos, lo que queda no es una novela, sino una radiografía. Aunque comparado con el resto de la obra de Burroughs, Yonqui resulta casi convencional. Después vendrán El almuerzo desnudo y su delirio lisérgico, sus híbridos de ciencia ficción, sexo y entropía. Pero aquí todavía estamos en la fase clínica. No hay collage, ni automatismo, ni criaturas mutantes. Solo una voz que observa. Si Burroughs fuera pintor, Yonqui sería un boceto hiperrealista antes del estallido abstracto. Pero incluso ese boceto ya está contaminado. No hay moral, no hay denuncia, no hay moraleja. Solo un espejo. Turbio pero revelador.
¿Se puede comparar con otras novelas sobre adicción? Tal vez con En el camino de Kerouac pero sin la euforia. Aquí no hay beatitudes ni libertad, solo servidumbre. Yonqui es el reverso absoluto del romanticismo drogadicto: no hay glamour, solo rutina. Si Trainspotting es una rave con cuchillas, esto es un ambulatorio donde nadie pregunta tu nombre. Y si uno lo piensa bien, Burroughs ya anticipa esa estética mucho antes de que Irvine Welsh naciera: la del cuerpo como cárcel y la mente como celador ausente.
Pero también hay algo profundamente americano en Yonqui: esa compulsión de registrarlo todo, incluso lo que debería permanecer oculto. La droga como fenómeno social, como mercado, como jerga, como institución. Y el adicto como microempresario de su propio deterioro. A ratos parece que has leído más sobre precios, dosis y calidades que en cualquier tratado económico. Y eso es parte de su rareza: la adicción como economía sumergida. El yonqui como pequeño capitalista del olvido.
Lo que queda, al final, es una sensación extraña. No hay admiración ni repulsión. No hay apología. No hay mensaje. Solo un desmontaje meticuloso de esa pedagogía del miedo que te contaban en el colegio: que un solo chute bastaba para perderte para siempre. Burroughs lo desarma sin dramatismo, con hechos desnudos y una lucidez que hiela. Hay una especie de respeto helado aquí. Como si hubieras asistido a una confesión sin lágrimas, sin culpa, sin redención. Solo alguien que te dice: esto es lo que soy. Y tú, como lector, lo aceptas. No porque lo entiendas, sino porque no puedes negarlo. Burroughs no moraliza. Solo apunta. Y en esa frialdad hay una afirmación brutal: esto también es libertad. Yonqui es eso: un testimonio que no pide ser creído ni amado. Solo leído. Y en ese gesto, seco y honesto, hay más literatura que en muchas novelas llenas de adornos y buenos sentimientos.
Así que sí, quizá el infierno no tenga gritos. Quizá huela a éter y tenga lámparas fluorescentes. Y quizá Burroughs, con su voz de notario del abismo, nos lo haya mostrado como nadie. Burroughs no te dice lo que está bien. Solo te recuerda que la libertad, si es real, también incluye el derecho a arruinarte tú solito. Sin gritar, sin llorar. Solo escribiendo. Porque a veces la verdad más insoportable no necesita dramatismo. Solo alguien que no parpadee mientras la cuenta.
April 9, 2024
A quick Novella about the life and times of a narcotics addict. An insight into another world and if you wanted to understand all the lingo on the streets this book includes a glossary to cover of many phrases.
My favourite is Stool Pigeon which was sung by Kid Creole and the Coconuts released back in 1982.
Overall not a bad average read and well put together for a short story.
My favourite is Stool Pigeon which was sung by Kid Creole and the Coconuts released back in 1982.
Overall not a bad average read and well put together for a short story.
July 13, 2015
Before reading Trainspotting and Requiem for a Dream, it was Junky that first opened my eyes to the world of drug addiction - seen many films about drug addicts, but it's a whole different thing when reading about habitual heroin use. Actually thought this was an out and out memoir and not a semi-autobiographical novel. Not that that really matters. A book one would not read for pleasure, that's for damn sure, but it was always an interesting experience discovering just how Burroughs lived and struggled through this troublesome time in his life. Despite being written in the 50s it felt remarkably fresh, and had a stranglehold over me for its entirety - never will forget the junk sickness. Burroughs doesn't beat around the bush here; there is nothing poetic or fancy about his prose. It's all very straightforward; no-nonsense. Also, Junky gets credit for its open attitude to sexuality, which surely makes it one of the earliest to be so frank on the subject. Just as much a parable of modern alienation, and one of the most important books of the 50s I'd say. Some may find it shocking, but I was overcome more by sadness.
February 6, 2018
φτιαξιμο σημαινει να βλεπεις τα πραγματα απο ξεχωριστη σκοπια .φτιαξιμο σημαινει στιγμιαια ελευθερια απο τις απαιτησεις της επιφυλακτικης, τυραννικης, φοβισμενης σαρκας που γερναει...
July 28, 2008
It's William S. Burroughs, dude. Made me wanna do heroin to get a grasp of what he was going through though. But to really understand his plight I would have to become a junky, which you really gotta put effort into, and I don't really wanna be a junky, because once you are you are for life. Read it, he'll tell you. Or read a bio on him or any other heroin addict. You can do it once and be okay but once you're a junky you can go 20 years without and then do it once and you're hooked or sick all over again just like you had been doing it for all those 20 years you were clean. Burroughs' theory is that it just changes your cells for life. Besides, I don't like heroin enough to be a junky. If I'm gonna do drugs I'd rather be eating psychedelics.
He's got some lines, man. I like a writer that can write. I read more for the beauty and flow of words than for anything else. I love facts and learning, but I have a hard time reading nonfiction sometimes, not all the time, but sometimes. And although this was almost nonfiction because it was based on his life and addiction, his words, pure beauty. I can read a book about human shit if it's written beautifully.
He's got some lines, man. I like a writer that can write. I read more for the beauty and flow of words than for anything else. I love facts and learning, but I have a hard time reading nonfiction sometimes, not all the time, but sometimes. And although this was almost nonfiction because it was based on his life and addiction, his words, pure beauty. I can read a book about human shit if it's written beautifully.
July 31, 2026
If my last reading experience was lacklustre (it was), this one was the opposite. One might say a "high" of my reading pile this year.
I've been meaning to read this 1953 classic a long while now. I don't know why, but I've always had a fascination with opiates. Given how deliriously happy I was after the shot of morphine that I was given after C-section #2, I think it's fairly safe to say I'd like them, if given the chance. So my fascination stays at a great distance, the closest I get when driving through Vancouver's downtown eastside, a godforsaken place where people congregate openly to obtain and use, and there's no end of people bent over in the "fentanyl fold" position.
It's disturbing, but it's an education for my children to see. I tell them "each one of those people was a kid like you once, deserving of love and every other good thing in life". They stare, uncomprehendingly, at the world there. The junkie's world.
This book, written by a real life junkie, is a narrative so brutally real, I'd call it journalistic. I'm sure I won't say anything new about this book, which is revered by many, including J.G. Ballard and Allen Ginsberg. But what I'll say is that anything I didn't get from this story, things I longed for, like warmth, or meaningful self-awareness, I didn't get because the writer simply couldn't give them. It would have been false had he integrated those things, and I simply have to respect that. A man who comes from a privileged background, who had a trust fund and didn't have to work, falls into a deep drug addiction out of... boredom?
He's not likeable, but he chronicles the heroin addict's life in a compelling way. The emptiness, the drive, the sickness, the desperation. Three quarters into the book, he casually mentions he has a wife. Wait, what? He'd never mentioned her before! A few pages toward the end, he mentions "the kids". Shit, that guy had a wife and kids? Everything is overshadowed by the junk, whether he had it, when he'd get it next, how sick he was feeling. Every cell in his body a slave to it.
Sometimes he'd manage to get off a few months, but then inevitably, casually, just shoot up again, for almost no reason at all, to re-start the addiction.
It's dark and disturbing, but it's an archive of a life. Sadly, it's not a singular experience, there's a whole world Burroughs captures here with an unblinking eye.
I've been meaning to read this 1953 classic a long while now. I don't know why, but I've always had a fascination with opiates. Given how deliriously happy I was after the shot of morphine that I was given after C-section #2, I think it's fairly safe to say I'd like them, if given the chance. So my fascination stays at a great distance, the closest I get when driving through Vancouver's downtown eastside, a godforsaken place where people congregate openly to obtain and use, and there's no end of people bent over in the "fentanyl fold" position.
It's disturbing, but it's an education for my children to see. I tell them "each one of those people was a kid like you once, deserving of love and every other good thing in life". They stare, uncomprehendingly, at the world there. The junkie's world.
This book, written by a real life junkie, is a narrative so brutally real, I'd call it journalistic. I'm sure I won't say anything new about this book, which is revered by many, including J.G. Ballard and Allen Ginsberg. But what I'll say is that anything I didn't get from this story, things I longed for, like warmth, or meaningful self-awareness, I didn't get because the writer simply couldn't give them. It would have been false had he integrated those things, and I simply have to respect that. A man who comes from a privileged background, who had a trust fund and didn't have to work, falls into a deep drug addiction out of... boredom?
He's not likeable, but he chronicles the heroin addict's life in a compelling way. The emptiness, the drive, the sickness, the desperation. Three quarters into the book, he casually mentions he has a wife. Wait, what? He'd never mentioned her before! A few pages toward the end, he mentions "the kids". Shit, that guy had a wife and kids? Everything is overshadowed by the junk, whether he had it, when he'd get it next, how sick he was feeling. Every cell in his body a slave to it.
Sometimes he'd manage to get off a few months, but then inevitably, casually, just shoot up again, for almost no reason at all, to re-start the addiction.
It's dark and disturbing, but it's an archive of a life. Sadly, it's not a singular experience, there's a whole world Burroughs captures here with an unblinking eye.
July 17, 2018
عندما يصبح المدمن جل همه التنبيش عن وريد صالح للحقن ولا يجد عندها سوف تكون أمانيه هي أوردتك التي يحسدك عليها سوف تعلم تماماً ما هي لعنة الإدمان وتوابعه
هذا الكتاب المتجلي عن نشوة المخدر بقلم من أدمن الهيروين ودرج على كل ما تحته من مخدرات يشرح بكيفية فائقة الحالة والهالة عن رحلة مضنية عجيبة مكثفة لا تستطيع أن تتوقف عن قرائتها...حالة من الإزدراء سوف تنتاب من يقرآ هذه الصفحات وتجربة ثرية مفيدة سوف تخرج بها عند طي صفحاته
كتاب وزع أكثر من مليون نسخة بيع بثمن بخس لا يتجاوز الألف دولار في وقته لدار نشر إغتنت من ورائه ...أكثر من رائع
هذا الكتاب المتجلي عن نشوة المخدر بقلم من أدمن الهيروين ودرج على كل ما تحته من مخدرات يشرح بكيفية فائقة الحالة والهالة عن رحلة مضنية عجيبة مكثفة لا تستطيع أن تتوقف عن قرائتها...حالة من الإزدراء سوف تنتاب من يقرآ هذه الصفحات وتجربة ثرية مفيدة سوف تخرج بها عند طي صفحاته
كتاب وزع أكثر من مليون نسخة بيع بثمن بخس لا يتجاوز الألف دولار في وقته لدار نشر إغتنت من ورائه ...أكثر من رائع
October 14, 2021
This was just as gritty and showing just how ugly addiction is as I had hoped it would be. Luckily I have never been addicted to drugs and for that am very happy. This book was both engaging and horrifying at times. Not because of scary monsters or thrilling events but for the sheer pain and sorrow addictions bring. There is not rose tinted glasses reading this and that this is how a book about addiction should be. Not an easy read per say but a good anywho
February 10, 2008
This could be the best anti-drug book ever written. It is certainly the odd-boy out in the Burroughs family of novels.
This is not the William S. Burroughs of The Wild Boys: A Book of the Dead (Burroughs, William S.) and certainly not the same guy who wrote Naked Lunch: The Restored Text. This is a Burroughs who's not talking to himself or talking to his admirers. Instead this an author who is stretching to reach the reader with the actual smelly, lonely, desperate, empty reality of the junky.
It's a reality that Burroughs has explored in his fiction and that he has occasionally mined for characters and atmosphere. But nowhere, not even in Exterminator! has he come as close to offering up this direct-if bleak-conversation with the reader. It's worth noting that, outside the world of book-lovers, this may be his most well-known work because it does such a stark and effective job of describing the day-to-day world as it's experienced by the junky.
Lynn Hoffman, author of the somewhat different bang BANG: A Novel
This is not the William S. Burroughs of The Wild Boys: A Book of the Dead (Burroughs, William S.) and certainly not the same guy who wrote Naked Lunch: The Restored Text. This is a Burroughs who's not talking to himself or talking to his admirers. Instead this an author who is stretching to reach the reader with the actual smelly, lonely, desperate, empty reality of the junky.
It's a reality that Burroughs has explored in his fiction and that he has occasionally mined for characters and atmosphere. But nowhere, not even in Exterminator! has he come as close to offering up this direct-if bleak-conversation with the reader. It's worth noting that, outside the world of book-lovers, this may be his most well-known work because it does such a stark and effective job of describing the day-to-day world as it's experienced by the junky.
Lynn Hoffman, author of the somewhat different bang BANG: A Novel
Read
January 18, 2025I’m not sure how to feel about this one ngl
December 21, 2018
I listened to the audiobook on YouTube. There are two different audiobooks, one read by the author and one read by David Carradine. The reader is not credited in the YouTube video, but I'm guessing it's the author. He has a raspy voice, but it works well for the reading. This was my first time reading anything from the beat generation, unless you count Charles Bukowski, who came along a little later. I tried reading some Jack Kerouac things and didn't get into them right away, so I moved on to this. Kerouac's stuff seemed to be more about drinking and chasing women, which I had read a lot about already in Bukowski's novels. In fact, there's very little mention of women (boys only!) in Junky at all. Heroin seems like an interesting topic for a beat author, considering how addictive it is, the lifestyle associated with it, things people are willing to do to get it, what the highs and withdrawals feel like, and the process of forming a habit. I'm sure this book was influential and there are a lot of books with this content today, but one thing that made this book great was the time period in which it was written, demonstrating the cultural zeitgeist. There's a lot of hipster slang like "stool-pigeon" and "lush-worker" used in the book. There's also homosexuality, which was taboo at the time. I appreciate that authors like Burroughs and James Baldwin had the courage to write about such topics. What appeals to and surprises me about a lot of books from this era are how relevant they still are today.
March 16, 2018
Let me start this out by saying that a few years ago, my pancreas tried to kill me. The doctors in the ER decided that I was going to die, so they didn't spare the painkillers. They loaded me up with Dilaudid, and it was one of the greatest experiences of my life. They kept giving it to me, and then surprise! I lived. I kept getting shots of Dilaudid until I realized that the pain was gone, and I no longer needed it. But I considered lying to get another shot. Heh. That was a bad idea, so I stopped myself.
I also had some dental issues, and I was given some opioids for that. I really, really enjoyed those. That's why I'm so angry with all these fools overdosing on opioids. USE YOUR DRUGS RESPONSIBLY. Because remember: heroin started out as a cure for morphine addiction. Whoops. Cocaine was medicine, too. Now all of these idiots are going to make opioids illegal because they don't know what they're doing. I enjoy a good opioid kick every once in a while. NOT EVERY DAY, THOUGH.
I should also note that I've known a few junkies in my time. Not only do I have slight experience myself, but I know how they act on a regular basis.
Reading this book confirmed everything I know. Burroughs was the real deal. I love THE NAKED LUNCH, and it is a masterpiece, but I enjoyed this book more. He pulled no punches. As an anthropologist, he was able to look at himself and that community with an objective eye. I can't praise this book enough. I wish he'd written a sequel later in his life, to add more of what he learned.
I had only one problem, and it has nothing to do with Burroughs. It has to do with the introduction. Wow, it was painful. As a result, I would like to add John Bruni's Rules for Writing Intros to Other People's Books.
1. Keep it to two pages. I prefer one page, but I'll allow two. There is no reason for you to run on for 20-30 pages.
2. Do not mention what happens in the book. We're not all familiar with the text. If you want to talk about how awesome the book is, fine. DO NOT TELL US ANYTHING THAT HAPPENS IN THE BOOK. I prefer reading books without any foreknowledge.
I think that's it. If I come up with any amendments, I will let you know.
I also had some dental issues, and I was given some opioids for that. I really, really enjoyed those. That's why I'm so angry with all these fools overdosing on opioids. USE YOUR DRUGS RESPONSIBLY. Because remember: heroin started out as a cure for morphine addiction. Whoops. Cocaine was medicine, too. Now all of these idiots are going to make opioids illegal because they don't know what they're doing. I enjoy a good opioid kick every once in a while. NOT EVERY DAY, THOUGH.
I should also note that I've known a few junkies in my time. Not only do I have slight experience myself, but I know how they act on a regular basis.
Reading this book confirmed everything I know. Burroughs was the real deal. I love THE NAKED LUNCH, and it is a masterpiece, but I enjoyed this book more. He pulled no punches. As an anthropologist, he was able to look at himself and that community with an objective eye. I can't praise this book enough. I wish he'd written a sequel later in his life, to add more of what he learned.
I had only one problem, and it has nothing to do with Burroughs. It has to do with the introduction. Wow, it was painful. As a result, I would like to add John Bruni's Rules for Writing Intros to Other People's Books.
1. Keep it to two pages. I prefer one page, but I'll allow two. There is no reason for you to run on for 20-30 pages.
2. Do not mention what happens in the book. We're not all familiar with the text. If you want to talk about how awesome the book is, fine. DO NOT TELL US ANYTHING THAT HAPPENS IN THE BOOK. I prefer reading books without any foreknowledge.
I think that's it. If I come up with any amendments, I will let you know.
October 12, 2022
Fantastic read, I was enthralled threw out. Burroughs writes in a different style in Junkie than in his later works but retains his ability to captivate the reader and illustrate magnificent scenes in print. He paints a vivid picture of the junkie lifestyle in a way only an addict could.
This was one of those books I wish didn't have an ending, I could read tales of Burroughs junkie misadventures for years. Definitely recommend especially if you like books about substances/addiction.
This was one of those books I wish didn't have an ending, I could read tales of Burroughs junkie misadventures for years. Definitely recommend especially if you like books about substances/addiction.
December 2, 2021
Creo que la visión de Burroughs sobre el mundo y la vida de los yonquis es precisa y acertada, digo 'creo' porque, por suerte, yo no conozco esa vida cerca de la mia ni, mucho menos, en primera persona. No obstante me crié en un barrio obrero en los 70-80, por lo que sí que vi cientos de casos y, la percepción que se tenía desde fuera, era exactamente lo que describe el autor. El autoengaño continuo en que estos adictos viven. Me llama mucho la atención que el libro se publica en 1953 y las situaciones que en él se describen en nuestro país no se vivieron hasta, al menos, 25 años después. Recomendable para entender el terrible drama que viven estas personas esclavas de la droga.
April 19, 2013
Burroughs does not pull any punches in this, his first novel. It is a plain account of the life of a junkie based on his own life. Burroughs describes his experience in a very matter of fact way; the many lows and very few highs. The descriptions of coming off heroin are horrific. It is still difficult to read, but describes a way of life and a downward spiral. The glossary at the end was very necessary for me.
Burroughs illustartes how much junk dominates your life when you are an addict and the effect it can have on your personality and relationships with others. There is one shocking description of cruelty to an animal which comes out of the blue and you realise the irrationality of the whole thing. Junk think is different. Most of the characters flit in and out very briefly and they are a pretty hopeless (in the true meaning of the word) bunch. The novel really did read like one of Dante's seven circles of hell.
Burroughs explodes a few myths in his original introduction, but he creates a few more and medical science has moved on since then. It is the description of the lifestyle and the drivers in the personality of a junkie which are the real strength of the book and now it is almost a piece of social history of a bygone age in relation to the legal and medical situations.
The Penguin Modern Classics edition has a very good introduction of Oliver Harris.
There is a vein of humour running through the novel and Burrough's laconic style works very well
Burroughs illustartes how much junk dominates your life when you are an addict and the effect it can have on your personality and relationships with others. There is one shocking description of cruelty to an animal which comes out of the blue and you realise the irrationality of the whole thing. Junk think is different. Most of the characters flit in and out very briefly and they are a pretty hopeless (in the true meaning of the word) bunch. The novel really did read like one of Dante's seven circles of hell.
Burroughs explodes a few myths in his original introduction, but he creates a few more and medical science has moved on since then. It is the description of the lifestyle and the drivers in the personality of a junkie which are the real strength of the book and now it is almost a piece of social history of a bygone age in relation to the legal and medical situations.
The Penguin Modern Classics edition has a very good introduction of Oliver Harris.
There is a vein of humour running through the novel and Burrough's laconic style works very well
April 23, 2011
The only Burroughs novel that I could finish in my life. I tried another one and could not get into it. An account of the non-square life. How to live life on the edge. It is a straightforward account about life as an outlaw. The parts of the novel set in Mexico really spoke to me. In a way, Junky is an action adventure novel. A true action adventure novel.
February 7, 2022
I actually wish I'd read this before Naked Lunch or any of his other books as it shows an unsplintered version of his psyche.
November 6, 2010
Other than smoking some in high school and reading some books taking either a sociological or pharmacological approach to the subject, I've never had much exposure to the heroin habit. The pleasure it afforded during a week of adolescent experimentation wasn't captivating and although I've been acquainted with some habitual users, I've never been intimate with one, never lived with one. This semi-autobiographical account is the closest I've ever gotten to how it might feel to be a person with the habit and no ever-ready way to sustain it. It's a dark picture.
Habits I do understand. I myself am a smoker and have been in circumstances of desire where I've walked considerable distances at night to buy a pack. I've also tried fasting and have noted that the expectation of eating every day has a similar insistency. Also, I've known, even lived with, persons with serious alcohol habits. All share common characteristics, but all are different enough that it takes something like Burroughs' book for me to begin to appreciate heroin.
The most affecting parts of 'Junkie' are those describing the gulf between the obsessively felt need and its satisfaction. The protagonist is no rich man able to manage his habit safely and get on with the rest of life. Instead, he must hustle; must risk running afoul of the law; may, in extremis, betray any relationship, break any convention. He's depraved and he knows it--a condition only mitigated by the fact that many of his "friends" and associates are in a similar situation.
Burroughs was one of the popular writers among my high school set. I avoided him because the descriptions I'd heard of his 'Naked Lunch' and other books made them sound confusing and obscure and because, frankly, I had a strong prejudice against heroin and heroin addicts. Over the years, however, reading more about him and some extracts of his writing in other books, I softened my opposition enough to pick this one up when I came upon it. It certainly wasn't fun, but it was a quick and dirty read and would likely be of service to anyone at risk or concerned about heroin users. I passed on my copy immediately.
Habits I do understand. I myself am a smoker and have been in circumstances of desire where I've walked considerable distances at night to buy a pack. I've also tried fasting and have noted that the expectation of eating every day has a similar insistency. Also, I've known, even lived with, persons with serious alcohol habits. All share common characteristics, but all are different enough that it takes something like Burroughs' book for me to begin to appreciate heroin.
The most affecting parts of 'Junkie' are those describing the gulf between the obsessively felt need and its satisfaction. The protagonist is no rich man able to manage his habit safely and get on with the rest of life. Instead, he must hustle; must risk running afoul of the law; may, in extremis, betray any relationship, break any convention. He's depraved and he knows it--a condition only mitigated by the fact that many of his "friends" and associates are in a similar situation.
Burroughs was one of the popular writers among my high school set. I avoided him because the descriptions I'd heard of his 'Naked Lunch' and other books made them sound confusing and obscure and because, frankly, I had a strong prejudice against heroin and heroin addicts. Over the years, however, reading more about him and some extracts of his writing in other books, I softened my opposition enough to pick this one up when I came upon it. It certainly wasn't fun, but it was a quick and dirty read and would likely be of service to anyone at risk or concerned about heroin users. I passed on my copy immediately.
September 22, 2012
William Burroughs must be high up on my list of good writers whose influence I find largely to be for the worse: While I actually like quite a few authors obviously inspired by him, I'm also quite certain that if it weren't for old Bill a good chunk of the Western world's high culture wouldn't have turned into a tiresome contest in who can be more cynical and incomprehensible than each other. Despite all this, even his relatively conventional debut novel has aged very well and lost little to none of its power!
In fact, I'd call "Junky" more readable than not just something like the author's multi-directional psychedelic mindfuck of a magnum opus "Naked Lunch" but also most of what I've read from the likes of Louis-Ferdinand Céline and Hunter S. Thompson. At least that's the case if you can stomach the subject matter. Then again, I consider Wm. Burroughs' greatest strength how good he was at making the reader uncomfortable and laugh out loud during the same paragraph... then afterwards make them think for weeks about what they've just read. I must say that I find his description of heroin withdrawal ten times more terrifying than any horror fiction I've read, precisely because there's so very little sensationalism or moralizing included. Likewise, the gallows humour is effective because how deadpan the delivery is, and arises naturally from the situations described.
Another reason "Junky" has aged very well is how useful the book is as a time capsule. It was written at the dawn of the drug culture in America in its current form, and there's another larger story told here than that of the protagonist: The paradigm shift the social subcultures surrounding drug addiction went through during the Eisenhower era, from its pre-WW2 shape most familiar to my generation from the 1930's pulp fiction and exploitation films to what "drug culture" means today. You can really tell here that the author was a trained anthropologist!
In fact, I'd call "Junky" more readable than not just something like the author's multi-directional psychedelic mindfuck of a magnum opus "Naked Lunch" but also most of what I've read from the likes of Louis-Ferdinand Céline and Hunter S. Thompson. At least that's the case if you can stomach the subject matter. Then again, I consider Wm. Burroughs' greatest strength how good he was at making the reader uncomfortable and laugh out loud during the same paragraph... then afterwards make them think for weeks about what they've just read. I must say that I find his description of heroin withdrawal ten times more terrifying than any horror fiction I've read, precisely because there's so very little sensationalism or moralizing included. Likewise, the gallows humour is effective because how deadpan the delivery is, and arises naturally from the situations described.
Another reason "Junky" has aged very well is how useful the book is as a time capsule. It was written at the dawn of the drug culture in America in its current form, and there's another larger story told here than that of the protagonist: The paradigm shift the social subcultures surrounding drug addiction went through during the Eisenhower era, from its pre-WW2 shape most familiar to my generation from the 1930's pulp fiction and exploitation films to what "drug culture" means today. You can really tell here that the author was a trained anthropologist!
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