William S. Burroughs Ipsum

Language is a virus from outer space. anything that can be done chemically can be done by other means. a paranoid is someone who knows a little of what's going on. how i hate those who are dedicated to producing conformity. nothing is true, everything is permitted. sometimes paranoia's just having all the facts. a cat's rage is beautiful, burning with pure cat flame, all its hair standing up and crackling blue sparks, eyes blazing and sputtering. the question is frequently asked: why does a man become a drug addict? the answer is that he usually does not intend to become an addict. you don't wake up one morning and decide to be a drug addict. it takes at least three months' shooting twice a day to get any habit at all. and you don't really know what junk sickness is until you have had several habits. it took me almost six months to get my first habit, and then the withdrawal symptoms were mild. i think it no exaggeration to say it takes about a year and several hundred injections to make an addict. the questions, of course, could be asked: why did you ever try narcotics? why did you continue using it long enough to become an addict? you become a narcotics addict because you do not have strong motivations in the other direction. junk wins by default. i tried it as a matter of curiosity. i drifted along taking shots when i could score. i ended up hooked. most addicts i have talked to report a similar experience. they did not start using drugs for any reason they can remember. they just drifted along until they got hooked. if you have never been addicted, you can have no clear idea what it means to need junk with the addict's special need. you don't decide to be an addict. one morning you wake up sick and you're an addict. (junky, prologue, p. xxxviii) the face of 'evil' is always the face of total need. as soon as you know you are in prison, you have a possibility to escape. that old feeling is still in my leaking heart. and it wanted to be kissed, finally, it talked all the time, beating at it with his fists... around here anymore. in the morning with transparentjelly... and grow there. nerve connections were blocked... so, the brain couldn't it was trapped inside the skull....

Nothing is true, everything is permitted. in my writing i am acting as a map maker, an explorer of psychic areas, a cosmonaut of inner space, and i see no point in exploring areas that have already been thoroughly surveyed. perhaps all pleasure is only relief. you can't fake quality any more than you can fake a good meal. silence is only frightening to people who are compulsively verbalizing. and built an act around it... his pants and start talking on the street... and then finally.

Our national drug is alcohol. we tend to regard the use any other drug with special horror. how i hate those who are dedicated to producing conformity. every man has inside himself a parasitic being who is acting not at all to his advantage. junk is the ideal product... the ultimate merchandise. no sales talk necessary. the client will crawl through a sewer and beg to buy. in my writing i am acting as a map maker, an explorer of psychic areas, a cosmonaut of inner space, and i see no point in exploring areas that have already been thoroughly surveyed. silence is only frightening to people who are compulsively verbalizing. smash the control images. smash the control machine. there are no innocent bystanders... what are they doing there in the first place? the face of 'evil' is always the face of total need. cheat your landlord if you can -- and must -- but do not try to shortchange the muse. to be an outlaw you must first have a base in law to reject and get out of, i never had such a base. i never had a place i could call home that meant any more than a key to a house, apartment or hotel room. ... am i alien? alien from what exactly? perhaps my home is my dream city, more real than my waking life precisely because it has no relation to waking life... in the magical universe there are no coincidences and there are no accidents. nothing happens unless someone wills it to happen. there is in fact something obscene and sinister about photography, a desire to imprison, to incorporate, a sexual intensity of pursuit. it would get drunk, too, and have crying jags. same as any other mouth. he would tear it off his mouth would have amputated spontaneously out of the closets and into the museums, libraries, architectural monuments, concert halls, bookstores, recording studios and film studios of the world. everything belongs to the inspired and dedicated thief.... words, colors, light, sounds, stone, wood, bronze belong to the living artist. they belong to anyone who can use them. loot the louvre! a bas l'originalit.