Speed

Rating:
Summary: Work of art on it's own merit....
Review: READ THIS FOR YER OWN GOOD...

Rating:
Summary: The One That Fell Through The Cracks
Review: William Burroughs Jnr. was born to the predicament that all those in the wake of a formidable family history are. That is, one in which one must, to forge one's own identity, risk especially large strides to step from long familial shadows. Burroughs Jnr.'s ancestors cast not only long shadows, but contorted ones too. His great grandfather founded the Burroughs Adding Machine Company, the double-edged sword of inheritance then laid at the feet of subsequent generations; at age four his father, iconic hophead and avant-garde litterateur William S. Burroughs, accidentally shot his mother in the head during a drunken presentation of William Tell. (She died. Burroughs Snr. was charged with criminal imprudence and subsequently decamped for South America and Tangiers, the latter being where he wrote NAKED LUNCH, a love-it-or-hate-it binge of surreal imagery that has since assumed mythic proportion in counterculture lore.) By age eighteen he was under the care of his paternal grandparents in West Palm Beach, Florida - and injecting methamphetamine daily. It is here that we rendezvous with the narrative of SPEED.

Superficially the book recounts the 1966 trip to New York made by Burroughs Jnr. and his needle buddy, Chad ("His whole attitude was full of fear and I could see that right off, and I always respect scared people who know what they're up against.") Chad comes off as one or two shy of the full compliment ("We turned a corner and he kept on going straight and didn't answer when I called to him.") though as a sidekick I think he would have been without peer. Appropriately he provides the book's comic highlight, a bout of grand paranoia during which he makes the protestation familiar to anyone acquainted with that state of being: "Every direction I started to go, he'd say, 'Oh, no! You're not getting me to go THAT way!'"

Accompanied only by their wits and an accommodating moral code ("I never rob anyone unless they die or go to jail which leaves me plenty of room, after all. I remember one time I boosted a guy that was only in a coma, and when he came to, the atmosphere was pretty strained for a while.") they accept hospitality where they can, occasionally with squares ("They wondered in stage whispers what was on my mind. I said, 'Carnivorous albino badgers, the size of a boxcar,' and they shut up.") but mostly with fellow chemical crusaders, amiable folk who wished the trivial and mundane would let them be so that they could get down to the real business of transcending reality ("I got on the phone to another session across town and tried to get them to come over. But they were all in the midst of God and didn't feel like driving.")

Considering what must have been a fairly skewed appreciation of reality, his sensibilities nevertheless appear attuned to some degree. At a gas station he lingers to savour the phonetics of "Gargoyle Arctic Oil", and later falls to the spell of a prodigal jazz musician ("But one morning I woke up just as it was getting possible to see and he was talking through his horn real quiet and conversational, and I think I never heard a more healing sound. I wish I knew his name so you could watch out for him."). Still, he's not above it all so much as to be immune from a spot of arbitrary rumination ("I sat still for a long time thinking about cathedrals.") or the inevitable rush of hyper-self-awareness ("'On the way over, I got to thinking about my ape man heritage for some unknown reason and I felt pretty hairy by the time we arrived.")

Substance abuse and the law being mostly antagonistic fields of interest, it's not long before the fuzz show up ("I was standing there on the curb dreaming revolution when a cop came over and said to break it up, fella. There was only one of me, but I broke it up anyway and went down the street in a well-rounded way.") Inevitably Burroughs Jnr. is soon in the wrong apartment at the wrong time. A stint or two at the county hotel follow. Against the narrative of the street these passages betray a mind grateful for respite and reflection ("Up and down the tier, the Puerto Ricans were banging out Latin rhythms on bedposts and bars and singing popular love songs...I felt sleep catching up to me as Gestalt shifted and spaces between the bars floated free...It was complex now, maybe thirty captives in separate cells listened hard and patterned together as my cellmate's tears and prayers fell unconsciously into time. Every bit of light went out, shapes ran melting through the dark as the rhythm slowed and stopped, and the last I heard was the click of the hack's heels as he passed on the catwalk and the kid finished, 'forgive me...'")

Mainlining a drug that narcoleptics use to stay awake doesn't bode well for the pursuit of slumber, and soon enough Burroughs Jnr. decides that for the sake of health, sanity, etc., a return to Florida is in order. At book's end, standing out front of the grandparent's house, he signs off in typically humble fashion ("Then I took a deep breath, smelling the jasmine, and I went inside.")

The prose is breezy, uncomplicated, a loose freeform arrangement that occupies the space a foot or two off the ground. Commas are applied sparingly, the effect being a pitter-patter rhythm that never slows for heavy discourse or pedantic application of fact. There's no danger of cutting yourself on any severe literary edgings here.

Highly recommended, but as the reader is often asked to meet the author half way, as it were, I'd hesitate to push this title upon anyone but those on amiable terms with the subject matter (though a passing interest may suffice).

William Burroughs Jnr. died in 1981, aged 35, of acute gastrointestinal hemorrhage associated with micronodular cirrhosis.

****stars

Rating:
Summary: fine book, damn' fine book
Review: _Speed_ was William S. Burrough's Jr.'s (not to be confused with his father, the "real" WSB) first novel. It's hard not to compare it to _The Basketball Diaries_ on the basis of some trivial and obvious similarities (_Speed_ is about the author's adolescent experiences as a methedrine addict in NYC) but he's going somewhere very different from where Carroll was going. His vision is colder and more distant than Carroll's, less sentimental. Yes, it IS possible to be less sentimental than Jim Carroll. WSB doesn't (didn't, i should say) write at all like his father; his prose is clean and spare, his characters are human, etc. Forget WSB sr. and Jim Carroll; WSB Jr. was enough of a writer to be considered on his own merits, which are significant. A very worthwhile book, as is its sucessor, _Kentucky Ham_. A third novel, _Pakriti Junction_, apparently was too fragmentary to print at the time of the author's death.

Rating:
Summary: fine book, damn' fine book
Review: _Speed_ was William S. Burrough's Jr.'s (not to be confused with his father, the "real" WSB) first novel. It's hard not to compare it to _The Basketball Diaries_ on the basis of some trivial and obvious similarities (_Speed_ is about the author's adolescent experiences as a methedrine addict in NYC) but he's going somewhere very different from where Carroll was going. His vision is colder and more distant than Carroll's, less sentimental. Yes, it IS possible to be less sentimental than Jim Carroll. WSB doesn't (didn't, i should say) write at all like his father; his prose is clean and spare, his characters are human, etc. Forget WSB sr. and Jim Carroll; WSB Jr. was enough of a writer to be considered on his own merits, which are significant. A very worthwhile book, as is its sucessor, _Kentucky Ham_. A third novel, _Pakriti Junction_, apparently was too fragmentary to print at the time of the author's death.