William S. Burroughs: A Man With Qualities

In the Fall of 1984, I first met Bill in Cleveland, Ohio. Several years earlier, I had acquired my first archive of his early manuscripts, a complete grouping of his books published up to that time, and numerous American and English magazines in which he had written articles on a wide variety of subjects, most of which have not been republished to this day. Included among this material was his first holographic short story “Twilight’s Last Gleaming”.

Several dealers frequently mentioned to me that he was in financial distress, not a surprising fact, given Bill’s rather erratic personal and literary history. Curious to meet him and with the intent to also help improve his situation, I arranged for a reading at Kent State University in Kent, Ohio, and a book-signing reception for his new book, Cities of the Red Night at a well-known Cleveland book store.

He slowly walked the gateway from the airplane, dressed in characteristic attire: a much-used mottled brown hat, the brim pulled down tightly obscuring his forehead, a tired thick wool vested dark-brown suit often featured in his photographs, a non-descript tired beige raincoat and his ever-present, battered cane that he used both as an effective aid for emphasis and for periodic support.

While I formed many often ambivalent impressions of Bill during his visit, most of which were reinforced in subsequent meetings, several incidents stood out just as they were perhaps because they were reflective of his persona and what that persona will represent to future generations.

The first event, after a day of rest, involved the visit to Kent State, a forty-minute drive from Cleveland. It began with a question and answer session with students. This was followed by a reading from his current book and a few selected passages from earlier works.

The stunning stillness in the classroom of the 100 or so students would lead one to believe some deity was present instead of William S. Burroughs. His carefully controlled, well-paced walk into the room, understated and unassuming, added to the already heightened atmosphere. Sitting in the middle between the ends of a semi-circle of students and a few professors of contemporary literature, with both hands placed on top of his cane, and propped under his chin, he waited patiently for his first question. Silence lingered for several minutes; no one felt comfortable to begin. Bill’s aura of tranquility, I believe, surprised them and perhaps didn’t coincide with their image of what he should be like. Afterall, his notorious history was well-publicized and extensively written about.

Finally, one brave student asked an innocuous question, the tension dissolved, and the remaining hour was filled with rather insightful and thoughtful questions, which he responded to with his well-rehearsed routines.

After this curious beginning, the reading itself, held in an auditorium, with about 500 in attendance, was well-received. Burroughs, with his flat, midwest acerbic intonation, wry smile, and comic sense of timing, clearly dominated the event. Yet, his presence was that he probably could have said nothing and still received a standing ovation.

At the book-signing and cocktail party, held on a bright, crisp autumn day the following afternoon at a charming, but now extinct independent bookstore, the early crowd, mostly people in their 20’s and teens were respectful but hesitant in their attempt to engage him in conversation. Many brought piles of his books for inscriptions.

Later, when the “by invitation”, older, allegedly more mature group arrived, they also hesitated to approach him, feeling more comfortable to circle Bill, watchfully and tentatively. Maintaining this de facto circle throughout the party reminded me of how primitive tribes in New Guinea act when believing some force of nature separated them from visitors to their villages.

During those three days we ate informal meals in our kitchen with our children who had flown home from college to be part of this happening. No outsiders were invited, thinking Bill would prefer the quietness of a family gathering rather than traditional formal dinner parties.

During those evenings, however, we surprisingly received a continual flow of young people, mostly students, appearing like pilgrims at the front door, unannounced, asking to meet William.

How they found out our address I still do not know.

Believing this intrusion was inappropriate and unwanted we denied entry, until Bill finally said he didn’t mind if a few came in to watch us eat. We admitted a boy and girl who sat in the adjoining dining room, observing the ritual, never saying a word, yet clearly desirous of wanting to interface with him. William graciously did respond to a few questions; but the raptured look on these young peoples faces I was to see repeated many times in future years at various occasions. His influence over them still is effective and profound.

Result of the trip: He received some needed money, sold a substantial number of books, saw a different side of Cleveland and provided my family with a deeply satisfying encounter with a great writer.

All three icons of the Beat Generation, Jack Kerouac, Alan Ginsberg and William S. Burroughs have passed away. Yet today, more than thirty years after the Beat Generation era evolved into other cultural movements, their popularity in America and Europe has never been broader or more certain. Like Charles Dickens who largely invented the serial novel, whose successors thrive now in movies, television and books, the Beats’ influence continues to confront us in such areas as music, literature and art. The Whitney Art Museum Exhibition in 1996 “Beat Culture and the New America” certainly suggests this is true.

Jack Kerouac died early, at only 47 years of age, but published during his life and posthumously over 30 novels and non-fiction books. For most of his material, he was direct, easily understood and wrote primarily about himself. He became an inspiration to his generation. There was no ambiguity in his thoughts; the cliche—“what you see is what you get” is appropriate. Alan Ginsberg, the publicist for them, and numerous other lesser poets and writers, promoted all selflessly, wrote numerous poems and articles and eulogized the period unlike anyone else previously or since. But, other than some of his early poems like “Howl” and “Kaddish”, his impact on American culture and society will continue to remain problematic.

William S. Burroughs, the least understood of the three, perhaps even to himself, may ultimately have the most important influence on future generations. His literary output as described in Ted Morgan’s biography, Literary Outlaw, was extensive and uneven. Unlike Joyce’s Finigan’s Wake, one of the great unread novels, The Naked Lunch, a seminal literary work of the 20th Century American Fiction is still being read today, particularly, by the younger generations and discussed in numerous papers and seminars. But like Whitman or Emerson as personalities (they were much finer writers) he was a man with many layers of complexity and he will continue to fascinate generations to come. He remains an enigma of being; an individual who produced at least one masterpiece beside himself.