Queer

by William S. Burroughs

Moor smiled into an inner mirror, a smile without a trace of warmth, but it was not a cold smile: it was the meaningless smile of senile decay, the smile that goes with false teeth, the smile of a man grown old and stir-simple in the solitary confinement of exclusive self-love.

Moor’s hate was a slow, steady push, weak but infinitely persistent, waiting to take advantage of any weakness in another.

Lee and Allerton went to see Cocteau’s Orpheus. In the dark theater Lee could feel his body pull toward Allerton, an amoeboid protoplasmic projection, straining with a blind worm hunger to enter the other’s body, to breathe with his lungs, see with his eyes, learn the feel of his viscera and genitals. Allerton shifted in his seat. Lee felt a sharp twinge, a strain or dislocation of the spirit. His eyes ached. He took off his glasses and ran his hand over his closed eyes.

Stupid people can learn a language quick and easy because there is nothing going on in there to keep it out.