Well, I tried.
For years I told myself I would read Naked Lunch, an account of the years that Beat writer, William S. Burroughs, spent as a heroin addict. Naked Lunch is sort of his 44-Magnum Opus; a book that while probably recognized by millions, has likely been read in its entirety by a only a few. Why? Because it makes no fucking sense.
The idea of it, as Burroughs writes in his introduction, sounds incredibly intriguing. To wit:
“I awoke from The Sickness at the age of forty-five, calm and sane, and in reasonably good health except for a weakened liver and the look of borrowed flesh common to all who survive The Sickness. Most survivors do not remember the delirium in detail. I apparently took detailed notes on sickness and delirium. I have no precise memory of writing the notes, which have now been published under the title Naked Lunch.”
Sounds good, right? Wrong. I got about 25 pages into this rambling, incoherent junk journal and wrote it off. Sorry Bill. Guess I’m a sucker for coherency and at least a somewhat linear plot.
Interestingly enough, Naked Lunch was voted one of the 100 Best English-language Novels from 1923 to 2005 by Time Magazine, so maybe I’m just a dolt.
At least Burroughs had an excuse. Derrida is gratuitously incomprehensible, and yet his followers (a friend used to call them Branch Derrideans) praise the obscure and incomprehensible like initiates into the mysteries. I thought for a long time I was not smart enough to understand him, until I realized the Derrideans didn't understand him either. Why? Because he made little sense. You're not a dolt, Joe. But people really are sheep when it comes to these things. Baaaaaaa
Posted by: Pambasilea | June 21, 2012 at 01:37 PM