a book bind

I’m in a literary quandary.

When I decided to up the tempo on this writing thing, first thing I did was buy a moleskine and carry it everywhere to scrawl down whatever came out of my head. Second thing I did was revisit the masters. My masters -- the ones who get me excited about words: cummings, Kerouac, Burroughs, Gonzo, Hesse, Marquez, Irving, Kesey, Palahniuk. I devoured their inspiration and flicked the switch on the ‘let’s play with words’ room in my brain.

So when about a month ago, on yet another second-hand bookstore scavenge, I bumped into William Burroughs’ The Ticket That Exploded, it was like getting a whole new lego set for my words room. I was yea excited.

Surely Burroughs, beat poet, word maestro, would come play lego with me? Surely a novel heralded as a perfect example of the cut-up technique of writing would give me some ideas? After all, I loved Junky.

But, I. Am. Struggling! This book is too much! I’ve barely managed to push myself through 50 pages, most of that done with a facial expression whose verbal equivalent would be, “ewwwww”. Do you know how hard it is to read with one eye closed and your head turned to one side while your face is screwed up like that? I’m scared to read it in public in case someone else sees it, knows exactly what I’m reading and thinks me a total pervert.

I could describe this book (so far as I’ve read) in three words, but I can’t write them here because together, they will definitely not google well at all. The first two might be ok – gay, and alien. The third rhymes with horn. I’m not kidding. And there seem to be a lot of boys in it. I don’t think that’s right. Amazon’s key phrases for the book might give you an idea of what I’m talking about. Or maybe not.

What I do know is that I’m not getting the connection yet between what’s on the page and what the book is actually meant to be about, which I think is some sort of P.I trying to get to the bottom of an intergalactic takeover occurring through mind control and technology (and a lot of man-man loving).

The thing is, I really believe it has something to teach me about playing with syntax. The whole idea of cut-up is fascinating – take text, physically cut it up, put it back together to create new meanings through juxtaposition. Force the readers to make sense of it themselves instead of force-feeding them the meaning.

Some sentences go for whole paragraphs with no punctuation at all. Then there are whole pages of short grabs. That is the fascinating part of this book. The actual story – so very not.

Like this…

“Murder under a carbide lamp in Puya rain outside it’s a mighty wet place drinking aguardiente with tea and canella to cut that kerosene taste he called me a drunken son of a bitch and there it was across the table raw and bloody as a fresh used knife . . sitting torpid and quiescent in a canvas chair after reading last month’s Sunday comics “the jokes” he called them and read every word it sometimes took him a full hour by a tidal river in Mexico slow murder in his eyes maybe ten fifteen years later I see the move he made then he was a good amateur chess player it took up most of his time actually but he had plenty of that.”

Or this…

“In the open air a boy waiting – Smiles overtake someone walking – The questions drift down slowly out of an old dream – mountain wind caught in the door – the odor of drowned suns trailing her linen sweat in the final ape of history – Like I’d ask alterations but blue sky on our ticket that exploded”

- The Ticket that Exploded, William S. Burroughs

Both passages are pretty much, ‘wha??’ and yet I understand his play and manipulation.

So, my quandary is this: do I keep reading this – persevere as it were – through the severity of the story matter, in the hope of gleaning a new way of looking at words and syntax, or do I give up and go wash my brain out with soap?

Is it even possible to ignore subject matter altogether, and just focus on construction? Can you look at a painting of something awful only to admire the beauty in the brush strokes?

It feels wrong to turn my back on one of my masters. But seriously, he’s coming across as a dirty old bugger! Maybe I’ll give him 50 more pages.

Oh no! I flicked ahead! It gets worse! ewwwww!