Benny Bunter
Well-known member
They're deliberately ambiguous at least.
The whole thing stinks if you ask me. I've seen that line selectively quoted (in the introduction to the WB reader I think) as "Love. What there is." - an example of the disgraceful practice of posthumous editing. Seems "convenient"that WB typed "what" instead of "that".
While I'm on the subject that first exquisite corpse the Surrealists wrote always seems a bit fishy too. "The exquisite corpse / will drink / the new wine" - Just as well they didn't have him drinking the old hat or whatever![]()
I'm sure he did go soft, in fact I hope he did for his sake. Still, the "most natural painkiller" is a pretty funny way of defining love, and it can still fit in with his earlier outlook. "The most natural" sort of implies it's not actually fully natural, and 'painkiller' implies numbingness. Surely it's supposed to be ambiguous and ironic, as well as genuinely touching. Good last lines.
There's got to be a bit of tongue in cheek here, I think. Burroughs, of all people, knew that morphine is produced by the opium poppy, and surely nothing is more natural than a plant.I'm sure he did go soft, in fact I hope he did for his sake. Still, the "most natural painkiller" is a pretty funny way of defining love, and it can still fit in with his earlier outlook. "The most natural" sort of implies it's not actually fully natural, and 'painkiller' implies numbingness. Surely it's supposed to be ambiguous and ironic, as well as genuinely touching. Good last lines.
It all makes me wonder what Burroughs thought about what human relationships were like before the invention of photography/film and recorded sound,
Modernity marks itself out as hot culture, captured by a spiralling involvement with entropy deviations camouflaging an invasion from the future, launched back out of terminated security against everything that inhibits the meltdown process.
[A] retrochronal semiovirus, in which a time further in the future than the one in which we exist and choose infects the host present, reproducing itself in simulacra, until it destroys all the original chronocytes of the host imagination.
I can't read this type of stuff, think I'll stick with Burroughs.