An autobiographical novel that sort of meanders and wonders listlessly through a series of observations that only occasionally clusters together to form a cohesive story/narrative. The story itself is quite bland and made worse by non sequiturs and a lack of strong, dedicated characterization. Despite this, it is a decent pulp fiction drug novel that is as enjoyable (but not as developed) as his dad’s text “Junky”. Part of the problem with novels that focus entirely on drugs as a way of developing the action, is that the writer needs to have the talent necessary to make sure that the story is not submerged and destroyed. Drug addicts can be sensational bores, especially when they are only able to talk about the intricacies of preparing/sourcing a drug. They are miserable company, especially if they do not have the drug they are fond of. It takes real talent for a writer to use drugs as the central focus of a book, infused with autobiographical experiences and not have the story descend into the tedious documentation of people taking drugs or people wistfully recounting taking drugs. It is something that writers like Bukowski could have easily fell into since he used alcohol and bars often as a way to stimulate action in his work, luckily Bukowski was able to develop his craft longer and whilst retaining a similar style and prose, it was more than alcohol stories. Bill died too young, self-destructing and dying of liver failure due to sustained alcoholism at the age of 34. He most certainly would have been able to develop his writing and it had clear potential for becoming special. Bukowski after all did not become important until he was well into his 50s.
As a book itself, I only had a copy because I erroneously ordered it when I was 17, when I was ordering almost the entire William S Burroughs bibliography from a small independent bookstore. I had a college grant for the first time and with a sudden interest in the beat generation, I spent hundreds of pounds gathering books that had nothing to do with my course at the time. The book has followed me through life. It was with me when I went to the Marxism festival at the same age, in my rucksack, as I traveled to London on an overnight bus. It was used mostly for other things though. It for example has a girl’s phone number in the back with a scrawled self portrait of herself and her address. Reading the actual novel therefore has been a long time coming.
A great part of the book covers how drug addicts used the Bananadine hoax to their advantage in the rehabilitation system, by smoking foods that they did not like being served (for example smoking Brussels sprouts and so on as a way to remove them from the menu). Naturally, banana skin as containing psychoactive properties was reproduced entirely as a serious recipe in the Anarchist cook book in the 1970s and so it had way more traction beyond the scope of this novel which was autobiographically set in the 1960s. The hoax was about magnifying the stupidity of the government's policies on drugs, by trying to get the government to seriously consider regulating and controlling the ordinary banana. The "subtleties" of the drug, was enough to convince William Burroughs JR that it wasn't anything but a placebo, but it led to the use of nutmeg, mace and everything that could be conceived of as potential psychoactive substances in the rehabilitation facility. The psychotic drug addicts would be convinced of medicinal/recreational properties.
Pharmacology is interesting to me and to have Billy forging prescriptions at the beginning as a way to try and score drugs (presumably to be able to mix them) is fascinating. It is like a form of alchemy to the uninformed (such as myself) but unfortunately it is not considered in any depth beyond a framing/naming scene.