An unlimited supply of time

Scanning recently published books, and in particular those written by debutant authors is usually a discomforting task. Thin storylines, vague characterisation or downright abuse of language (and not in any creative sense) is par. Will time iconise these works just like they did with the works of the Beat generation? Ginsberg, Burroughs.

Or did the Beats actually have a motive that the modern writer-soul lacks? I wonder. It has been precisely 50 years since Burroughs published the overdebated and starkly overrated, “Naked Lunch”. It has an interesting framework and is undisputedly unique in its structure. But just how much attention should we attach to a man who shot his own wife by careless mistake, regularly shot heroin (without mistake) and didn’t have the guts to face up to the critique of his work by claiming he had “forgotten” about having written it (a lie, proved many times over. Heroin addicts are seldom conistent in their claims). Not to mention the fact that the cut-up variations of Naked Lunch most likely were an effect of Burroughs just dropping the manuscript all over the floor after finishing each page, not caring what page lead to what. And not as a form a creative exercise, either. After all, junkies do not have the luxury of coherence. Still, for what it is, the work is indeed interesting. In a freakshow, bearded-lady, kind of way.

Paul Bowles, the famous exile writer also living in Morocco at the time – claimed that Burroughs, whom he knew, and knew well – was really a humorist. And politely suggested that particular course for his friend. To little avail, obviously.

Bowles, incidentally, was everything Burroughs was not – even if they shared a love of exile. Bowles by choice, Burroughs out of necessity. Leave it to the Morrocans to provide a guilt-free environment for freebasing, bisexual gun-toting junkies.

Anyhow. Whatever may be said of Burroughs and Naked Lunch is that those ramblings of an irrate mind still supercede most of the newly pushlished work of today. And certainly those of any Swedish authors. And what a strange coincidence that is. The Swedish language is so very adapted to provide a razor-sharp, witty script. Pity.

What do you need to write a decent novel? Well. Turning to Bowles again, he put it like this:
“An idea. And one needs solitude and privacy and more or less unlimited time”.

What an impossible equation.