antes do fim de semana, mais umas notas sobre burroughs

I formed a romantic attachment for one of the boys at Los Alamos and kept a diary of this affair that was to put me off writing for many years. Even now I blush to remember its contents. During my Easter vacations in the second year I persuaded my family to let me stay in Saint Louis, so my things were packed and sent to me from the school and I used to turn cold thinking maybe the boys are reading it aloud to each other.

When the box finally arrived I pried it open and threw everything out until I found the diary and destroyed it forthwith, without a glance at the appalling pages. This still happens from time to time. I will write something I think is good at the time and looking it latter I say, my God, tear it into very small pieces and put it into somebody else’s garbage can. I wonder how many writers have had similar experiences. An anthology of such writing would be interesting.


In 1943 I met Kerouac and Ginsberg. K and I collaborated on a novel based on the Car-Kammerer case, which we decided not to publish, and again I lost interest in writing.

I can remember only one attempt between 1943 and 1949. I was living in Algiers, Louisiana, across the river from New Orleans. I was on heroin at the time and went to New Orleans every day to score. One day I woke up sick and went across the river, and when I got back I tried to recapture the painful over sensitivity of junk sickness, the oil slick over the river, the hastily parked car.

Para a semana coisas novas: imagens mentais do livro Blade Runner, a Movie e, um diálogo entre Burroughs e David Bowie (entre outras coisas...). Abraço a todos, bom fds.