Last Words
The Final Journals of William S. Burroughs
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- 10,99 €
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- 10,99 €
Descripción editorial
From the author of Naked Lunch andone of the most celebrated literary outlaws of our time comes the most intimate work he ever wrote, a complex portrait of Burroughs at the end of his life, coming to terms with aging and death.
Culled from journal entries of the last nine months of his life, Last Words spans the realms of cultural criticism, personal memoir, and fiction. Classic Burroughs concerns—rants on U.S. drug policy, contempt of the state of the human race, his love for his cats—permeate the book. He breaks into classic “routines’ and provides frequent commentary on whatever he is reading—from high literature to low-brow thrillers.
The “Old Man” emerges as frequently comical, sometimes meditative, always engaged—a commentator on the state of the world and the self. Most significantly, Last Words reveals the most open and vulnerable Burroughs we have ever seen. His reflections on the deaths of his friends Allen Ginsberg and Timothy Leary provide a window on the preparations Burroughs was making for his own death—a quest for absolution marked by a profound sense of guilt and loss.
Last Words is unlike anything else in the oeuvre of William S. Burroughs. It is the purest, most personal work ever presented by this writer, and a poignant portrait of the man, his life, and his creative process—one that never quit, even in the shadow of death.
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
Perhaps the last-ever fix for devoted fans of Junky, Interzone and Naked Lunch, these pages trace the meditations, amusements, memories and obsessions of the noted Beat author, wit, actor and substance abuser during his last year of life (1996-1997). Like many other writers' journals, this one mixes lengthy plot outlines, anecdotes and arguments with much briefer drifting thoughts and images. Burroughs considers his old age with a mix of wry humor, scattershot rancor and intimate rue: "Yes, where are the snows of yesterday. And the speedballs I useta know?" Clear throughout is Burroughs's real feeling for cats, several of which he kept; the very first page laments the death, by car, of Calico ("Cat was part of me"). Another oft-repeated theme is the "Evil of the Drug War, the War Against Drugs." Burroughs's brief, violent fantasies seem sad compensations for his increasing powerlessness. Elsewhere, his technique of associations continues to unearth memorably gloomy bizarrerie: January 31, 1997, brings "a hill of `snirt' in Dakota, where folks can quick-freeze and shatter like icicles when they go out for the mail. `Snirt' is a thing of the spring. If you make it through the cabin fever to the `snirt.' Winner take `snirt.'" A final entry resurrects "What I feel for my cats, present and past," then asks, "Love? What is It? Most natural painkiller what there is." The volume's fragmentary and personal nature will make it precious to all Burroughs devotees; its patches of wit and pathos, though real, may not be enough to endear it to other readers. Burroughs's friend Grauerholz, who edited the volume, supplies a compassionate introduction; an appendix glosses references and names.
