The jump from first person to third for this second book of
autobiography put me off initially, but it works. It works because the
book is about a crush that gnaws away at Burroughs (or rather, at "Bill
Lee", his stand-in) and having a first-person narrator, I think, would
inject the question of how the author Burroughs feels, now, about the
subject Burroughs. Dodging the issue means that he can describe both
level-headed and desperate emotions in the same reportorial tone.
More than in Junky, though, it trips me up to have so much
trouble imagining Burroughs young. It matters to the plot that he's
older than many of his friends-- but not THAT much older, not the
gentlemanly cadaver in the hundred iconic photos you see of him
today.
I've already started on The Soft Machine and discovered that the
'radical fiction' and cut-up experiments make a lot more sense knowing
some of the slang and drug-culture customs. This was worth reading in
its own right, though, as a portrait of unrequited affection.