William S. Burroughs Ipsum

Desperation is the raw material of drastic change. only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape. anything that can be done chemically can be done by other means. after one look at this planet any visitor from outer space would say 'i want to see the manager.' artists to my mind are the real architects of change, and not the political legislators who implement change after the fact. how i hate those who are dedicated to producing conformity. there couldn't be a society of people who didn't dream. they'd be dead in two weeks. sometimes paranoia's just having all the facts. hustlers of the world, there is one mark you cannot beat: the mark inside. i don't care if people hate my guts; i assume most of them do. the important question is whether they are in a position to do anything about it. you were not there for the beginning. you will not be there for the end. your knowledge of what is going on can only be superficial and relative 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) cheat your landlord if you can -- and must -- but do not try to shortchange the muse. there is in fact something obscene and sinister about photography, a desire to imprison, to incorporate, a sexual intensity of pursuit. how i hate those who are dedicated to producing conformity. nothing is true, everything is permitted. then it developed sort of teethlike... his pants and start talking on the street... finally, it talked all the time, day and night. you could hear him for blocks, and sticking candles up it, but... after that, he began waking up and the whole head... because the eyes went out... than a crab's eye at the end of a stalk..

Your mind will answer most questions if you learn to relax and wait for the answer. every man has inside himself a parasitic being who is acting not at all to his advantage. the only possible ethic is to do what one wants to do. silence is only frightening to people who are compulsively verbalizing. desperation is the raw material of drastic change. only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape. whether you sniff it smoke it eat it or shove it up your ass the result is the same: addiction. smash the control images. smash the control machine. as soon as you know you are in prison, you have a possibility to escape. he thought this was cute at first but the asshole would eat its way through shouting out it wanted equal rights. it would get drunk, too, and have crying jags. and sticking candles up it, but....

Anything that can be done chemically can be done by other means. admittedly, a homosexual can be conditioned to react sexually to a woman, or to an old boot for that matter. in fact, both homo - and heterosexual experimental subjects have been conditioned to react sexually to an old boot, and you can save a lot of money that way. there couldn't be a society of people who didn't dream. they'd be dead in two weeks. in deep sadness there is no place for sentimentality. the way to kill a man or a nation is to cut off his dreams, the way the whites are taking care of the indians: killing their dreams, their magic, their familiar spirits. silence is only frightening to people who are compulsively verbalizing. if i had my way we'd sleep every night all wrapped around each other like hibernating rattlesnakes. i am not one of those weak-spirited, sappy americans who want to be liked by all the people around them. i don't care if people hate my guts; i assume most of them do. the important question is whether they are in a position to do anything about it. my affections, being concentrated over a few people, are not spread all over hell in a vile attempt to placate sulky, worthless shits. a cat's rage is beautiful, burning with pure cat flame, all its hair standing up and crackling blue sparks, eyes blazing and sputtering. whether you like it or not, you are committed to the human endeavor. i cannot ally myself with such a purely negative goal as avoidance of suffering. suffering is a chance you take by the fact of being alive. the silent, helpless suffering.