I'm going to lay down my cards. I've had a love-hate relationship with William S. Burroughs. My feeling is that his talent is best crystallized in JUNKY and QUEER and that NAKED LUNCH represented the point in which he became more annoyingly performative (more on that anon, I am presently rereading that and nearly done). The reason for my journey down the Burroughs rabbit hole decades since I last tangoed with the unapologetic sybarite is, of course, Luca Guadagnino's deeply moving film adaptation of QUEER, which is one of the best films of 2024 and which I would also argues represents a good faith cinematic portrayals of Burroughs's many contradictions and ambiguities.
But William S. Burroughs was a fraud starting with NAKED LUNCH, when he first became aware that he was fucking with his audience, and I suspect that he would be the first motherfucker to admit this. He was purer and more truthful when he simply wrote. As Burroughs says at the head of one of these essays, the purpose of writing is "to make it happen."
So why am I giving this essay collection four stars if I believe Burroughs to be an opportunistic fraud? Why am I doing so when Burroughs constantly reuses the same points in differing essays? (To cite just some of his goto points, repeated ad nauseum: O'Hara was a better dialogue writer than Fitzgerald; Hemingway suffered many misfortunes and Papa's tendency to act out the lesser moments in his writing was his downfall; obligatory reference to Dunne's AN EXPERIMENT WITH TIME.) Well, because I think Burroughs was trying to tell everyone that there was absolutely nothing to his writing other than randomness. Hence, his cut-up methods -- surely one of the greatest grifts ever perpetuated against those starry-eyed worshipers looking for some answer behind the "mystique." Burroughs was a wildly indolent drug addict who wanted to shoot up heroin and fuck anyone who came his way. That was the reason. He makes it perfectly clear in these essays, but he writes anyway. Because someone is going to give him a check to "make it happen," even though nothing here of depth is really happening at all. To get under the hood and attempt to identify depth based on spurious reasons is an act of legerdemain on Burroughs's part. Don't analyze the man like a critical parasite. Just make it happen.
And even though I can get behind this bullshit artistry, there's also a big part of me who is greatly nauseated by it. Because I much prefer Burroughs operating in a solitary vacuum with those early novels.
Even so, talents who are lesser than Burroughs have tried to mimic this stupid analytical parlor game (which would include Mailer, who comes across as cartoonish by comparison) have failed because Burroughs wisely kept his ego buried within his nonfiction, even though he was very much a cat who was happy to ride the laurels of his own legacy (at one point, he brags about having front-row concert tickets).
So in my older and putatively wiser years, I am much less bothered by Burroughs than I was as a younger man, when these stupid acts represented the apotheosis of self-serving hypocrisy. As an older man, I can see that Burroughs wanted his audience to see through his bullshit persona and offered us many clues. And in an age where so many successful authors are hideously self-important in decidedly less interesting and inventive ways, I can definitely get behind THAT!