The End of Words...
Every Man A God
Every Man A God
Burroughs is the big enchilada of language reinvention. His final novel, "The Western Lands" is IMHO the greatest 20th C. American novel. If you see Kafka in the East and the Bill in the West then you see a broken bridge of word genius. You can't cross it but if you're lucky you can fall through the gap to unlanguage and beyond.
For me the most beautiful closing passage of any book belongs to the slow fade of "The Western Lands", the skill and brilliance of which is breathtaking. How does Burroughs conjure life and death in a few paragraphs? The poignancy of the denouement is almost unbearable. This is the attainment of a master as great as the literary heroes Burroughs admired:
I want to reach the Western Lands - right in front of you, across the bubbling brook. It's a frozen sewer. It's known as the Duad, remember? All the filth and horror, fear, hate, disease and death of human history flows bewteen you and the Western Lands. Let it flow! My cat Fletch stretches behind me on the bed. A tree like black lace against a gray sky. A flash of joy.
How long does it take for a man to learn that he does not, cannot want what he "wants"?
You have to be in Hell to see Heaven. Glimpses from the Land of the Dead, flashes of serene, timeless joy, a joy as old as suffering and despair.
The old writer couldn't write anymore because he had reached the end of words, the end of what can be done with words. And then? "British we are, British we stay." How long can one hang on in Gibraltar, with the tapestries where mustached riders with scimitars hunt tigers, the ivory balls one inside the other, bare seams showing, the long tearoom with mirrors on both sides and the tired fuschia and rubber plants, the shops selling English marmalade and Fortnum and Mason's tea...clinging to their Rock like the apes, clinging always to less and less.
In Tangier the Parade Bar is closed. Shadows are falling on the Mountain.
"Hurry up, please. It's time."
For me the most beautiful closing passage of any book belongs to the slow fade of "The Western Lands", the skill and brilliance of which is breathtaking. How does Burroughs conjure life and death in a few paragraphs? The poignancy of the denouement is almost unbearable. This is the attainment of a master as great as the literary heroes Burroughs admired:
I want to reach the Western Lands - right in front of you, across the bubbling brook. It's a frozen sewer. It's known as the Duad, remember? All the filth and horror, fear, hate, disease and death of human history flows bewteen you and the Western Lands. Let it flow! My cat Fletch stretches behind me on the bed. A tree like black lace against a gray sky. A flash of joy.
How long does it take for a man to learn that he does not, cannot want what he "wants"?
You have to be in Hell to see Heaven. Glimpses from the Land of the Dead, flashes of serene, timeless joy, a joy as old as suffering and despair.
The old writer couldn't write anymore because he had reached the end of words, the end of what can be done with words. And then? "British we are, British we stay." How long can one hang on in Gibraltar, with the tapestries where mustached riders with scimitars hunt tigers, the ivory balls one inside the other, bare seams showing, the long tearoom with mirrors on both sides and the tired fuschia and rubber plants, the shops selling English marmalade and Fortnum and Mason's tea...clinging to their Rock like the apes, clinging always to less and less.
In Tangier the Parade Bar is closed. Shadows are falling on the Mountain.
"Hurry up, please. It's time."
2 comments:
Beautiful! thanks for posting it. I haven't read it for awhile. As a writer who has studied Burroughs extensively, seen him read his works live- in 'concert' as it were, and who greatly admires him, I am glad that people are continuing to promote his words, thoughts, and his wisdom. However you view it.
Diane. xoxo.
It's just best piece of writing I have ever found and contradicts those who say the old fellow is somehow over-rated. The knaves!
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