If you think you can take Burroughs' words in an interview seriously... If you think this has all the answers, you're wrong. This is the most difficult book of Burroughs to interpret. Short texts, interspersed with a supposedly truthful person-to-person interview with everyone's favorite writer. Some of what he says in plain language is a godsend because it does clearly communicate a message. But beware all messages. His cut-up texts are reassuring to me because at least I know to perceive them as texts. But Burroughs hated to discuss his writing, and he loved to f*** with people. Discerning any sort of reality in this man's writing is difficult, be cautious. I detect numerous "lies" in this one, and I can see a great big smile on his face. I hope you smile too.

"The Job" is a fantastic introduction to the obsessions and maverick idealism that characterize Burroughs' fiction. This is not a straight question-and-answer session; Burroughs includes liberal samples of text (his own as well as others') to illustrate his ideas. The final product is an effective, surreal manifesto urging all of us to break out of our private tunnel realities and confront social control systems with open, empowered minds. Especially fascinating are Burroughs' thoughts on language and his prescient examination of media-viruses.

"The Job" is often brutal, always controversial, and possessed by the author's inimitable knack for nailing his target. This is an unforgettable plunge into one of the 20th century's foremost countercultural intellects.

I read somewhere that intelligence is the ability to make connections that others don't see. By that definition, and probably by any other, Burroughs is a philosophical and literary genius. Who else could make the connection between Mayan ritual calendars and the totalian nature of modern nation-states? Who else gives detailed explanations of his proven methods for dissembling reality?? For sheer brilliance and brutal truth about modern society, only Foucault approaches Burroughs. But Foucault never went to hell and came back to write about it.

Leary wants to be remembered as a brilliant psychologist, philosopher, and agent of social change, not just as the "High Priest of LSD" who urged everyone to "Turn On, Tune In, and Drop Out". He wants to be remembered for his contributions to and theories of human evolution, altered states of consciousness, and what he calls "re-imprinting" (which *might* be interpreted as a less-harsh way of saying 'positive psychedelic brainwashing'). In any case, Leary gives convincing justification for why he should be remembered as more than just a pop culture icon (and, he's not dead yet! ) But, I found it interesting to read "Acid Dreams" by Lee & Shlain because it provided another side of the Leary story. For example, Acid Dreams paints a very different picture of the encounter between Leary and the Black Panthers in Algiers than Leary's book does (Leary's side of the story is that his escape from the Panthers "demonstrated how to escape slavery in less than 300 years", which I thought was a gross comparison). In addition, Leary's book tends to omitt details like how Richard Alpert jumped out of the second story window of the Millbrook Estate because he was convinced he could fly while stoned on acid. But even so Leary's book is fascinating and revealing and I would certainly recommend it.

This book is great fun so i gave it five stars,however, it seems to take liberties with the truth somewhat.he attempts to paint himself as a mad, self-less saint out to save mankind single handedly but occasionaly the true, self serving clours of Leary shine through faintly and it seems to me the C.I.A had more than a little to do with his 'success'. When alls said and done (we all have an opinion on Leary +or-) this was an amazing man with a basically positive,healthy philosophy and the world is a more colourful,exciting place because of him. An exciting read whatever the truth!!! In this case the motto becomes Question Leary and Think For Yourself!!!

A really good book, lot's of funny stories about Leary and Liddy squaring off, a very intelligent man, comparable to John C. Lilly's Center of the Cyclone. Many Beatles references and 60's chantra's-Turn on tune in, drop out! The one where he escapes from CMC is funny, what an acrobat. The book is better than the audio cassettes. Book has his baby-boomer/whiz kids chart. Supposedly, any kid born after 1965, is a computer nut in the future, could be, but more like internet kids. Tells about his experiences at Harvard, and how stuffy they were in the early 60's. Tells about his [drug] experience with Marilyn Monroe, and he says"If I knew how sick she was then, my God I would of never given her the [stuff]." She in turn gave him some Randy/Mandy's, some Barb that gives feeling of Euphoria when mixed with booze. She was more wacked out than him. He talks about how happy he is, and how happy the world was in the 60's. Good book and I'm going to read it again, when I can afford it!-A good buy, for a book!-Love Marilyn(Garry)

This is definitely Burroughs's most powerful book since Naked Lunch, and perhaps my favorite after that. It's a wonderful journey through the lands of the dead, and offers a few clues into Burroughs' personal beliefs on the subject and how he feels death should be approached and life to be lived. Definitely read the first two novels in the trilogy first, though. Burroughs' books have always been less about narrative and more about painting a picture. This is a beautiful picture.

Review: Contains highly condensed scenarios in past present and future time. Rarefied and raw dream and after-death encounters and conflicts, with unforgettable characters in a multitude of hilarious satiric black humor routines, will stab you in the ribs with a poisoned quill. Not for the squeamish, dogmatic or uninformed. ¡novel biological mutations! Step right up. William S. Burroughs' examination of the function of the author is so candid and deeply moving that its authenticity can't be denied. The poems, "Breathe in your death" and "I WORK FOR THE BLACK HOLE,..." are, respectively, an exquisite cut-up and an informed, funny post-scientific verse. Who can award a Commander of Arts and Letters of this caliber less than 5 stars?

Like to offer a few simple pointers to help in navigating through this most accomplished and inspired of Burroughs' works. Starting with the title "The Western Lands," which in ancient Egyptian would read "Amenta," referring to the land of the dead who, by tradition, were always entombed to the west of Egypt. In present time, the most potent power accumulation is concentrated in the West. Suddenly you might recognize Western Culture as overwhelmed by material wealth, wielding the technology for total dominance/destruction, but metaphysically only "minutes away" from total bankruptcy. Burroughs wastes no words over this formula: spiritual bankruptcy = death. Species disappearing from the planet faster than the rising national debts.

Most important to understand, ladies and gentlemen, the possibility of much of his fiction as factual analogs. He delineates the 7 souls, Hollywood style, with deadly humor. The existence of Immortality isn't just the question of an eccentric old man. It's a question all civilizations face, and there's nothing frivolous about it when a dying culture sees it has no answers. Naturally, (profiting from the course of collapse) Nazis, Mafias, CIA, KGB and other boards and syndicates all have walk-on parts. All all all only to be topped and toppled by the inexorable expansion of the white light of Margaras (Skt.). The cat Margaras is the agent of total awareness and observation. Break this book open at any page and be amazed.

The trilogy to which this lucid novel belongs marked a slowing down of pace for this writer who had become so renown for his soaring and shocking books. Yet, especially in Place of the Dead Roads and Western Lands, his vision sinks in far more deeply and the sheer beauty of its imagery is the light behind the doors of perception which his previous work has kicked in. Always someone who showed no mercy to those who wanted to hide from reality and whose words were like bullets, here in the final part Burroughs grabs you by the throat by talking to you in a unexpectedly human voice of a world beyond death and humanity. He always was a poet, but here he truly sings, be it a swan song.

the book starts off well with some deft writing on wild west style duels and guns--burroughs knows his shootin' irons. then there is some good stuff on dividing humankind (and et's too) into johnsons (the good) and non-johnsons (the bad, including the english, the arabs, the venusians, but not the french, who are johnsons.) along way are a few one-liner jokes so funny you have to slap your leg. and in the middle of the book are two wonderful
chapters, one evoking a feeling of loss, the next about a fake rural town peopled by fake rustics, johsonville, that is absolutely hilarious. and toward the end there's an astonishingly funny chapter on kim carsons, the gunslinging hero, being fitted for a proper english suit by an english tailor after entering the shop in a medieval cape that reeks of black palgue. and then near the end as well there's a proper bourroughs's list of the inner circles of hell, including bald, mid-aged men giving birth to centipedes from egg sacks on their heads. that is, there's b at his hallucinatory wildest here and there, but for too many pages there's just dull claptrap attempting to hold the sharper visions together in a ho-hum good vs evil (johnson vs non-) plot. not as stylistically even as b's more sober books such as junky and queer, and not as consistently stoned as naked lunch, but definitely readable.

This may be the most accessible of all of Burrough's books, and proves his brilliant command of the language. He starts with an incredibly strong novel, and then takes us on a head trip through the joys and evils of modern civilization. Remarkably coherent, considering the ground that he covers. Like a few other things, you really can't explain it - just try it and you'll see.

WILLIAM BURROUGHS AT HIS BEST, PERIOD. DOING HIS VERY OWN VERSION OF NIETSZCHE'S "THE GENEALOGY OF MORAL", BURROUGHS TAKES US ON A TIME AND SPACE SPANNING TRIP TROUGH THE REALMS OF THE SLAVE-GODS, THE LANGUAJE VIRUS (EVER PRESENT IN BURROUGHS MITHOLOGY) AND THE INVADED WOMAN-VESSELS FOR THE CATHOLIC DECEASE, BURROUGHS PROVES ONCE MORE THAT HE CAN DO WHATEVER HE WANTS WITH LANGUAJE, A TRULY MASTERPIECE THAT EXPANDS SEVERAL UNIVERSES WIDE. DO NOT DARE TO MISS IT.

Throughout 1957 and 1963, members of the Beat movement - primarily Allen Ginsberg, William Burroughs, Gregory Corso, and Brion Gysin (and Peter Orlovsky, although he was mostly just along for the ride with Ginsberg) lived (on and off) in an old, low rent hotel in Paris at 9 Git-Le-Rue. During these years they experimented with various literary forms and a multitude of drugs, and created a large body of their work. There were many interesting relationship dynamics going on amongst them all, and most of all this book focuses on those relationships and how they affected each of their respective creative output.

The author is in love with both Ginsberg and Burroughs though, so the narrative is somewhat skewed. He seems to have unfavorable reactions to Corso's drinking, for instance, but practically glorifies Burroughs' practice of drug-induced creativity. Still, it's an interesting account of the time spent in Paris.

I lived at number nine rue Git-le-Coeur from 1955 until 1958 and visited there often until 1960 and knew most of the people mentioned in the book. I was an ex-Korean War Vet studying on the G.I. Bill as were thousands of "Americans in Paris" in the 50,s. I can attest that most of the events related are accurate. The Hotel was special because of the freedom the owner granted us: cooking in our rooms, decorating them, allowing overnight guests, etc.) I believe it was the Hotel that helped form the "Beats" rather then the other way around since it was a creative beehive before they got there. My main argument with the book is the insistance of the hotel as being sordid, rat-ridden and dirty. This was not true. I never saw a four-legged rat there and the only roaches were the cannibis kind. The rooms were swept and mopped daily. It was a great place to be even before the "Beats" arrived and should not be defamed by exaggeration at the expense of the wonderful blue haired MadameRachou who owned it and took care of us, her Americains.

The first time I read this book, I turned back over to the first page and read it again. It was that good. I am a huge Burroughs fan, and I learned a new appreciation for Allen Ginsberg, Gregory Corso and Brion Gysin. The grist of this book provides insight into the day-to-day maze of creativity whose epicenter happened to be Post WWII Paris. If you are looking for a fresh, lively, intelligent glimpse into the creative process of Burroughs, Gysin, Corso, Ginsberg and others, this is the book for you.

This really isn't a novel. It is much more than that. This is where Burroughs got so many of the images for his life time of work. You see, this is a tour book of The Land of the Dead, or as he also called it, The Place of Dead Roads. While he subtitles this work _A Book of Dreams_ he is careful to point out that these are a very special sort of dream. They are dreams that are more real than waking life. Indeed, the author speculates if the dreaming city isn't really his true home, his true life- far more real than Lawrence, Kansas.

You can't expect to read a book like this in the same way that you would read an ordinary book. You must unfocus your mind, in the same way that you must unfocus your eyes to truly SEE some abstract art. Only then will the images begin to flow and transport you. That is because this book is a conscious act of magic, as the old magician knew when he crafted it....

See if the Land of the Dead doesn't start to seem very familiar to you. I know I immediately recognised the place he was describing. It is a place where the dead, the sleeping, the magical travellers all meet. That is why the landscape and architecture are such a tangle, why there are no clear distinctions between public and private places. It is a mad, mixed, consensus "reality." That is also why flight is possible there. You see, in such a place gravity isn't a law- it is an opinion....

I think this was a very interesting concept to record 5 years worth of dreams and then put them into a book. Some of the images and characters Burroughs comes up with are so vivid and so realistic that when I read this I actually felt like I was with Burroughs during this subconcious journey.

I liked how he used his dreams as education, and how he realized the importance of his dreams; a very Freudian quality. I think that this book represented finally coming to terms with your past, and accepting vicissitude (or change) that others tend to shy away from. This book is a very important addition to Burroughs' extensive body of work, and undoubtedly one of his best books. And often times it's overlooked because it's in the shadow of the Naked Lunch and the Soft Machine.

This book is my introduction to Mr. Burroughs, but it definatly will not be the end. I have never read a book so detached yet so intriging, each paragraph takes you further from the "real" concrete world and closer to a world that is so complex and confusing. Rather than trying to make this a thesis or make this book into a lesson, Burroughs treats the subject as a observer and as an experience. It is a short book, you have nothing to lose. I highly recommend

This is possibly my favorite, I remember a lot about it. Just as if not more so on the lines of Wild Boys, except those boys are replaced renegade military types who go haywire and destroy the civilized control towers and such with the ubiquitous words "Calling partisans of all nations-Shift linquals, vibrate tourists-Word falling, photo falling-break through in grey room!" Wonderful. Mostly stream-of-conciousness, including the immensely garbled and mind blowing (atleast to me) chapter "Trak!Trak!Trak!" (either that or Trek)...he just keeps going and going, but not like the Energizer Bunny becuase that peice of fluffy pink machinery is a commercialized 'soft machine' and Burroughs is its arch enemy. Wouldn't it just be marvelous if the 2 duked it out on some adulterated Japanese animation like Cowboy Bebob? Err. BREAK THROUGH TO THE OTHER SIDE...OF LITERATURE AND LUNACY!

Other particularly memorable scenes that stuck in my internal synapses include a chapter where a news reporter infiltrates backward Mayan codices (where a hollogram image of an old master controls the migrant workers) and penetrates the machine and punches the hollogram in the gut and screams out freedom and aw, it was beautiful. Also feast your eyes on voodoo doctors taking advantage of their drug induced patients, boys in the forgotten hills, traveling shifty, where am I going with this? Whatever, just read it, boys and girls.

When I first started reading this book not much of it made any sense. I just let it from whatever it had to feed in my right brain (visuals). The second step came on the chapter Public Agent where I kept with the imaging and connected this imaging together so that it made some intellictual sense. From these experiences I found out that in this book Burroughs communicates in a language that streams together the sound, image,word. This book with its cut/up induces creativity and will also boost anybody's vocabulary skills. If you liked the cut/up used in Natural Born Killers then you'll like this book,which Natural Born Killers was probably born from.

I think the genius comes in when Burroughs takes the stories apart and scrambles them back together to make silly but surreptitiously truthful little sideswipes at reality.

Among other things, Black's 1926 autobiography is a dictionary of the gangster-hobo lexicon of the 1880s and 90s. Black and his colleagues blow open safes with "dan," then throw back "mickies of Dr Hall" and eat chicken "mulligans" around campfires at "bum conventions." That is, after they clear out the "gay cats" and "scissor bills."

It's also a thoroughly wonderful read. "You Can't Win" tells the life-story of Jack Black, who at sixteen leaves home heading "westbound in search of adventure," which he finds, along with a band of outlaw friends, frequent stints in jail, and a gripping addiction to opium. Black hypnotized me with his exploits on the road and in prison, tales that are part how-to's on house burglary, part nail-biting crime stories, part insider's critique of the criminal justice system. Black presents a detailed portrait of a bygone American West, where a small-town quaintness juxtaposes with the rough-and-tumble lawlessness of frontier mining culture. It's a time of transition in America, and Black's narrative captures both the innocence and the sophistication. Some scenes I imagined in sepia tones: Black breaks out of rickety jails with a pocketknife and exchanges unreliable paper money for gold. But as Black runs an opium ring from inside a San Francisco prison and orchestrates a mob murder of a double-crossing ex-girlfriend, I realized Black's world has plenty in common with our contemporary one.

Looking a little deeper, though, I had doubts about the reliability of Black as a narrator. I suppose memoirs, autobiographies and histories are by necessity narratives that select and omit details, and assemble countless events into a few hundred pages with a coherent plot and moral. But it's the autobiographer's challenge to win readers to his or her version of the story by eliciting our pathos and gaining our trust. Early in the book, Black succeeds completely. His direct, plain-speaking confessional introduces the ethical code of the Johnson Family, a fraternity of safe-cracking and house-robbing "yeggs" who treat their livelihood as a professional guild. Black's unfaltering commitment to the code and this community won my respect and admiration.

But at some point I became aware of glaring omissions that interrupted the narrative continuity and unseated my wholehearted trust. The book chronicles 35 years of Black's adventures, many of which take place in mining towns, skid-row bars and gambling halls, so it's not terribly surprising how few women characters make an appearance. But his relationship with one who does, Irish Annie, drew my attention to the question of authorial reliability. Annie's a prostitute whom he helps out of jam in Chicago. Later they meet again in Canada and Black lives in her brothel, content to let everyone think he's "Annie's protector and the man about the place," but he denies any sort of romantic relationship. Then Annie surfaces a third time: "a scorned woman" who takes her revenge corroborating a story that puts Black back in jail. Whether or not their relationship was more intimate than Black admits, I began to wonder what key details, what important adventures, didn't make the "autobiography." When Black recounts Annie's murder by a friend of his, he suggests this unnamed member of the Johnson Family decided to kill Annie on his own, an independent retaliation for her breach of the underworld creed. I suspected, however, that Black's role in the crime was more direct, and his storytelling had become less so.

Nonetheless, "You Can't Win" is a captivating and lyrical adventure story. It's written with the pace, diction and style of the best hard-boiled crime novels of its own era. And it has a voyeuristic appeal as powerful as contemporary gangster tales like Monster Kody Scott's "Monster: The Autobiography of an LA Gang Member" or Richard Price's "Clockers." Like "Monster," in fact, "You Can't Win" has the added pleasure of a book that sparks your thinking about narrative devices, truthfulness and the purpose of autobiography.

"You Can't Win," is an entertaining romp through the underworld of the American West at the beginning of the twentieth century, although the book masquerades as an anti-crime and prison reform tract. Sparsely written, yet thoroughly picturesque and descriptive, "You Can't Win" was written by Jack Black, burglar, safecracker, stick-up man, and penitentiary kingpin gone good. Traveling through a world of saloons, mining camps, and raucous western cities like San Francisco and Seattle, Black brings to vivid life a world of the 1900s we rarely see in textbooks.

In the end, Black urges us to stick to the straight and narrow, rues the path that brought him to morphine and state penitentiaries. Indeed, throughout the narrative, Black sprinkles cautionary paragraphs intended to discourage would-be imitators. But there's such a streak of enthusiasm and nostalgia running through Black's book that it's hard to believe that he regrets most of what he did. The stuff that he REALLY regrets seems to be what's left out - and there's a lot left out. That period he "terrorized" San Francisco - according to the afterword - his shooting of an unarmed man, the drug business he subsequently set up in prison.

Black's world is extremely moral, if not above the law. There's a strong sense of loyalty running through the book, and an ethical hierarchy, at the bottom of which lie "stool pigeons" and "double crossers," and at the top are the reliable men who keep their word and pay their debts. Those who make the cut, who play by the unwritten rules of lawbreaking and loyalty are the "Johnsons," the family of thieves.

No wonder those literary poseurs, the Beats, glommed onto this book as an instructional how-to, not as a cautionary tale of morality. The Beats were attracted to the underworldly anti-establishment characters, the bums, the hobos, and the fences. In the introduction to "You Can't Win," William S. Burroughs takes Black's message further by adding a second category in opposition to the "Johnsons," the "poops." (Using a different word, of course, which won't pass Amazon's censorship.) Either you're a "Johnson" or you're a "poop," Burroughs says, and with a swooping unJohsonlike gesture indicts everybody who prefers work to thievery.

Black himself would reject the notion of casting most of us into "poopdom." He had great respect for honest people, even those that he robbed. Sure they might be a bit slow, but they often plied a trade, bothered no one, and lived fulfilled. He blamed his own inability to keep straight on some mysterious internal defect, refusing to praise or justify his violent past.. Burroughs, of course, born into a life of priviledge and wealth, and who chose to squander his advantages on drugs and self-entertainment, prefers to justify his own excesses (including the shooting death of his wife) and grab onto the title of "Johnson," as if it were a badge of honor.

But putting my attacks on the Beats aside, the importance of this book lies in its examination of criminality. What makes a criminal? How can we keep young people from growing up into a life of crime? Although Black provides us with few answers, he gives us the example of his own life. He claims that his experiences in prison made him more of a criminal, and that the aggressive response of law enforcement officials to his deeds pushed him further into crime. It was the prison strait-jacket treatment that turned him bad, that put him behind a gun, that made him dangerous. And it was a judge's act of kindness that convinced him to reform. In order to cut down on vicous criminals, Black suggests more leniency on first-time offenders, more job opportunities and support for ex-cons, and an end to the death penalty and other cruel punishements.

After meeting a man who's been there, who walked on the other side of law and order, after getting to know, respect, and like the man, it's hard to argue with that conclusion. Those behind bars are people, not animals, machines, or rocks. And let's face it, in recent years our prison and police system has only created more criminals, not to mention caused the deaths of hundreds of men and women.

As a high school teacher who embraces and thoroughly enjoys teaching a unit on the Beats, I felt it necessary to read what William S. Burroughs described as his favorite book. What I discovered was something that deserves more than the title "cult classic." I will attempt to limit my description to a few points. First, the book begins in the late 1800's (1870-80ish) when Black is a young boy attending school and ends amidst the depression. You Can't Win provides readers with a true account of this time in America-one that avoids the Mississippi (Twain) and mentions very little of the Roaring 20's (Gatsby), which is something I find truly refreshing. Both teachers of English and American history will find this book beneficial to their understanding of what it was like to live during the end of the 19th century and beginning of the 20th century. Black's words and writing style reflect the times in American history accordingly. His writing is sparse and to the point-a style that I find realistically refreshing. This language lends itself to one of the high points of the novel-its characters. Salt Chunk Mary, Sanctimonious Kid, and Foot and Half George are just a few of the individuals Black introduces that I will not soon forget. At times humorous, at times sad, at times enlightening, the text is truly a lost classic. As a side note, Black provides many insights into the affect that yeggs/hobos had on the English language, which is something that I find particularly interesting.
Black is a criminal, something he makes no bones. He knows what he did was wrong and makes no excuses. He is just telling his story. This honesty is something that many of the autobiographies I have read seem to lack. Yes, there are portions of the text Black seems to gloss over, but the afterward fills these in nicely. Though Black is a burglar, thief, and convict, he is, nonetheless, a man of his word. By being such he describes an underworld whose moral code (unfortunately) far exceeds our current state of affairs. There was truly an honor among thieves and this is something we all need to learn from. Regardless of his exploits, Black maintains a dignity that carries readers through the text wondering what he will do next and how he will escape the pinch he is in. Never does he paint himself as a direct hero or a villain--he is simply human and, in being so, does things that he knows are wrong but are a necessity to his survival. Finally, this rugged tramp who ultimately ends up writing movies for MGM, provides readers with a variety of life lessons. I filled the first page of the book with over 80 page numbers where great quotes and lessons can be found. I could elaborate on these but as Black taught me, sometimes words don't do justice. You just had to have been there--you had to have the personal experience. And reading You Can't Win is a profound personal experience. You can have your Daniel Quinn and Ishmael, I'll have my Jack Black and You Can't Win.

Cities of the Red Night has been hailed as the consummate sequel to Naked Lunch; at first glance the style, tone, and typically hideous imagery would seem to support this. However, there the similarities end. What motives may have gripped the author are unclear, but the general smoothness of the script and kinder degree of readability seem to suggest that he was at his more lucid state of mind when writing this. This is not to say that Red Night is necessarily any better or worse than its precursor - it is coherent, concise, and in places very compelling - but the very fact that there is a traceable plot and storyline will probably surprise those who accustomed to Naked Lunch. Conversely, anyone who picks up this novel in the expectation of an easily understandable yarn is likely to meet an unexpected shock: Red Night is by no means ideal for the conventional taste (it is coherent for Burroughs; it still requires acclimatization). Whilst individual stories weave and occasionally intertwine, the majority of the book is a collage of non- or only vaguely-connected tales.

The book begins with a renaissance flavor, concentrating on the machinations of a splinter group of South American rebels against the Evil Empire of the Christian faith. It then takes an unexpected turn for the surreal with a sudden cut to the present: the life of Clem Snide -"Private Asshole"- and various doctors analyzing a mysterious disease. After many somewhat nebulous theories concerning time travel and inter-corporeal experiences, the novel winds up in the waging of climactic battles in long-forgotten cities.

Those familiar with Naked Lunch will be at home with the constant themes of homosexuality, drug use, and bizarre death throughout. This time, however, Burroughs attention is no longer focussed upon the life cycle of the junk fiend which won Naked Lunch its cult following - Red Night is a tale of strange cultures, unexplored territories, time travel, and spirit-possessions. Although the occasional familiar ! face is noticed - Dr. Benway, the xiucults, and mugwumps - the majority of Red Night is a departure from the predominantly 'cut-up' style of his other work.

Whether this is good or bad is uncertain. Red Night is enjoyable to anyone who enjoyed Naked Lunch, but unlike Naked Lunch it tempts the reader into expecting a definite ending or final realization...a dangerous thing. If there IS a message inherent in the novel, it is likely to be even more difficult to grasp than the fragmented (though clear) storylines, and the reader will be hard pressed to find it. But that is hardly reason enough to condemn the novel- after all, it is a piece of work which makes no explanation for its unworldly nature, nor gives any apologies for its violent and frequently repulsive subject matter.

At one time I thought Burroughs was a total fraud. It was my opinion that he was laughing all the way to the bank at the dupes who bought his books- and paid for his habit. Then I sat down and read this book, and _The Place of Dead Roads_, and The Western Lands. I was dead wrong. This is an unique and valid vision. This is modern art in print, designed to rip the mind free from its habitual sleep walking. And that is strange, for this is one prolonged nightmare, or bad trip.... yet, while I was reading this I got this sense of deja vu, like the Cities of the Red Night and a Place of Dead Roads actually exist-somewhere- perhaps on the threshholds of hell, or limbo, or.... even "heaven." Where ever it is, it is a place on the border where only dreams, drugs, or black magic can take you.
Moreover, I think I understand Burroughs place in the beat trilogy. Kerouac was the holy fool who had the capacity to touch on direct union with the Divine. Ginsberg, was the secular humanist, a good man well grounded in the world. Burroughs, however, walked the left hand path, the shadow. Taken together, all three, the holy trinity, were the composite soul of an age.

This book is unlike many of Burroughs's prior works in that there is an actual plot. The story itself centers on a cult of control freaks who are trying to destroy the world through the release of a Virus. A private detective hired onto the case does some digging -- with some paranormal help -- and traces the cult back to the Cities Of The Red Night, which existed before recorded history. Burroughs crafts this story as only a true master could, at first enchanting you, then throwing you through fear, horror, nausea, awe and irony, and finally leaving you feeling as if you've been in a car crash (without all the nasty bills to pay). All at once, you get a sense of just how overwhelming this world is that he has created, and you wonder if maybe, given more time, and the will to do so, he might have created an anti-Narnia. As it turns out, he did. Cities of the Red Night is just one part of what turns out to be a trilogy of Burroughs's views on religion and metaphysics. The other two books, Place of Dead Roads and The Western Lands, take the world and worldview in Cities of the Red Night and expands them to cover his metaphysics and his views of the afterlife. Burroughs isn't looking to make friends with these works; in fact many people will be downright offended by what is contained in these books, especially his anti-Christian sentiments. In the end, though, the reader (well, *this* reader anyway) is left with a sense that Burroughs was trying to be more than a writer with these books. Perhaps, he was trying to be a prophet.

The Yage Letters is an interesting collection of correspondance from William S Burroughs to Allen Ginsberg spanning from Jan. 15 to July 10, 1953. In addition to capturing the essence of Burroughs style and subject matter, albeit in a rather raw form, the letters tell of his search for the mythic mind-altering natural drug Yage.

Incidentally, this search took place directly after Burroughs had fled from Mexico after the accidental death of his wife at his own hand. Although there are many jewels to be found in this small book for the dedicated fan of Burroughs' work, they are spread throughout with many tedious, repetitious and confusing entries. Ginsburg's contribution, which I hoped would lend a voice of explanation to the letters, is instead a spasmolytic account of his own experience on the same drug, seemingly penned when still under the influence of it.

All in all, an interesting account of one of America's most important author's experiences traveling through Latin and South America in the early 50's--a time of great upheaval and fervor in that region. Highly recommended for Burroughs fanatics and seems to prefigure his work Cities of the Red Night. However, for those not yet familar with his revolutionary writing style I recommend Cities of the Red Night, and Junky.

The Yage Letters was a correspondence between William Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg. Burroughs describes his ongoing search for the ancient drug, starting in Mexico, and finishing in South America. Likewise, Ginsberg finishes where Burroughs left off and the rest is history. I enjoyed reading this book, and was pleased to learn about new cultures and info on hallucinogens. The book can become overwelming in some section, especially the last bit about the cut-up process; nevertheless, it's still an interesting idea, which Burroughs had utilized in every artistic medium. Also included are a few sketches by Ginsberg himself

This is the best collection of letters I have ever read, next to The Letters of William S. Burroughs. Bill's letters to Allen really TAKE YOU THERE, as he once said about Colette. Bill rants against the U.S. Point Four agrarian bureaucracy, missionaries living "the life of Riley", Peruvian boys who roll him for his money, eyeglasses, etc.; however, Bill said to Allen that he "shared with the late Father Flanigan - he of Boys Town - the deep conviction that there is no such thing as a bad boy." Overall, good reading and a good record of South America in the early 1950's.