Suicide is tricky. For the individual, it promises an absolute end to a certain kind of temporal pain, sure — but then, just as quickly, it transfers that pain onto others. And according to its algebra, the multipliers can be huge.
Obsessed about a new kind of writing, something more interesting, and immediate, than what’s happening in social media or anywhere else, certainly books—and it was seen in the thrim and shimmer of the lightrays and lush at a disco loft party last night. There for a second, a mirrored moment alone, when my ancient idea of “instant writing” was haunting me hard, some of it came out quickly in great natural clarity—it was strong, vernal, and maybe the only way out that was reasonably possible.
Because look: I’ve created a mountain range of backed-up work in journals and files and piles of pocket notebooks all to transcribe, and there’s simply no way to gather it en masse together and organize it without stopping, and time, and meanwhile more—the ideas keep gushing forth in their fast-flowing froth and I know that the most likely way of finishing these big legends and books is maybe to write them all out in realtime just as they happen, and instantly with fast strokes & brushthought life is transmuted to word.
I spoke with William S. Burroughs a few times in the final years of his life. I miss him, and recently I was shocked but happy to hear his voice again — it was coming out of the pages of Dostoyevsky.