William S. Burroughs‘ Junkie is written tight and clean, just like I like it. But there is no humor, no black humor, nor any dry humor. The book is dark and hopeless, just as Burroughs’ addiction is. There is no redemption for his narrator; he never changes. But without Burroughs’ strict attention to detail, without his lack of repenting, we would not have the literature we have today. He wrote about gay sex easily without explaining it or making it dirty or salacious. He just wrote about his life. He created a whole new genre—cult culture.
Having been a fan of the Beat generation for years, I’ve read and explored and reread and revisited their writing. I started of course, with Jack Kerouac’s On the Road. I slowly made my way through all of his books. I read William Burroughs. I read some Ferlinghetti and Ginsberg. I backtracked to Kerouac. And then I wondered about the women in their lives. What did they do? How did they deal with these men? Continue reading →