My Education: A Book of Dreams
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With My Education: A Book of Dreams William S. Burroughs pushes on into new territory, once again committing the unspeakable crime of questioning the reality structure. Dreams have always been a rich source of imagery in Burroughs' work. In this book they are a direct and powerful force. Hundreds of dreams - intense, vivid, visionary - form the spiraling core of a unique and haunting journey into perception. Exploring and embodying Burroughs' provocative ideas on writing, painting, consciousness and creativity, My Education is profoundly personal, and may be as close to a memoir as we will see.
son of a bitch, I’ve had enough …” He says something like: “Justice. You must face me.” I walk out. Someone is guiding me through a series of doors and hallways. One door is a mottled brown-white color like one of my paintings. On and on. Come finally to a metal workshop. A man is moving a heavy steel drum. I ask: “What the fuck do you do here?” “Demolition.” “Can I work here?” “You have to pass a physical.” He pointed out a dusty window across a courtyard littered with rubbish. I am
Five days of strenuous selection, editing, and rehearsals. Timed rehearsals paid off in an excellent reading. David Ohle said it was the best he ever heard me give. James said he was proud of me. Very good all around. Driving back in Wayne’s huge van with a fridge, shower, toilet, bunks. Desolate country, burnt grass to the sky for miles. Not a house. A few straggly trees, mulberry no doubt. I am reading The Nigger of the “Narcissus.” Rereading or simply reading for the first time. Conrad
demonstrate that I can levitate, but they pay no attention. I pick one man and lift him off the pavement. “Look down … see? We’re floating.” I put him down and see that he is violently hostile. I try to placate him. “Most people are bewildered and much impressed. You are a rare exception.” He smiles a ghastly, insulting grimace that goes on and on, more and more insulting, portentous, inhumanly hostile, a smile of pure inhuman hate. He is about thirty, thin, pale, dressed in a dirty-blue
like mannequins. Some dish on the menu, and I ask what it is. “Just tell me what it looks like.” “Well,” says the petite blue-eyed blonde behind the counter, “it’s banana chips fried in a cream sauce …” And just down the counter is a liz, naked to the waist, eating a whole plateful of this muck. The whole set is garish, like a 1920 movie theater, with red marble columns and mirrors and marble staircases. The boys set up a guerrilla unit with the young Maize God. Traveling in time on the
a long pointed muzzle quivering like a dowser wand. “Where did that door dog come from? What is it doing here?” “Does it matter?” Distilled concentrate of petulant Portman. “Door man … door dog,” I say. He doesn’t answer. Obviously I will have to billet the old German lady in my room, which is a duplicate of his room except the beds are smaller. On a plane and it is going down and I know this is reality. No feeling of a dream … we are going down. Passengers across the aisle are all