On an average day in New York, Burroughs gets up between 9:00 and 10:00 and shaves. In a dream note made on 13th August 1975 he wrote: “Things needed. Shaving mirror. Anyone used to shave feels deterioration if he cannot.” From Retreat Diaries. Burroughs associates shaving with civilization and throughout his travels has never grown a beard or mustache.
Then he takes a 100 milligram capsule of vitamin Bl because he believes it replaces the Bl that alcohol removes from the system. He dresses, washes last night’s dishes, and eats breakfast. He likes coffee with a donut, English muffin, or angel food cake.
Around 11:00 he goes down four long flights of stairs to get his mail (5–10 pieces daily). Between 11:30 and 12:30 he putters around the loft looking at notes, writing notes, and checking through various books.
Between 12:30 and 1:00 Bill often goes out shopping for groceries or, lately, new clothes. He’s usually back by 1:00, eats no lunch and writes between 1:00 and 4:00 in the afternoon.
If James Grauerholz is working with him on a manuscript or a reading, James will arrive around 4:00 in the afternoon and will stay through dinner. This happens, on the average, three times a week. They go over the work between 4:00 and 6:00 when Burroughs often relaxes, sitting in a rocking chair by the window. “It’s a very beautiful sight,” James says. “I’ll be working at the other end of the loft. I’ll look up, and there will be William just sitting perfectly still in his chair looking kind of serene.”
At 6:00 P.M. Burroughs pours himself a drink. Dinner is between 7:30 and 8:30.
All his life Burroughs has eaten in restaurants. Today, he shops and cooks for himself, often having friends over, or going to their places nearby for dinner. After dinner, conversation continues until 11:00 or 12:00 and then usually home or to bed. Occasionally he stays up talking till dawn.
An average Burroughs day produces six pages. Sometimes he’ll write as many as fifteen. When he started Cities of the Red Night he produced 120 pages in two weeks. “William’s very good at knowing when to leave things alone and when to go back to them. He knows when enough is enough,” James reports. “Sometimes I may try to push him on something—looking at a manuscript when 600 pages have been written and saying, ‘We should begin editing that’—and he’ll say, ‘No … that’ll take another couple of years.’ He’s seen enough time pass that he knows how to pace himself.”
DINNER WITH DEBBIE HARRY AND CHRIS STEIN: NEW YORK 1980
DEBBIE HARRY: Have you been to Portugal?
BURROUGHS: Yes. I have been in Lisbon once for a meal, but I don’t know Portugal at all. It’s strange, because it looks like no other place. I was in Lisbon. The people there don’t look like any other people I ever saw, the architecture doesn’t look like any other architecture. I remember in Tangier, when a Portuguese fishing boat would suddenly be blown into port on some kind of a wind, and you could spot a Portuguese sailor a block away. They’re a strange, slightly uncouth-looking archaic people dressed in these odd clothes, some of them very beautiful, some of them awful-looking.
HARRY: That’s also true of the Atlanteans and Druids, right?
BURROUGHS: But they were so distinguished. You could just look down the block and say, “There is a Portuguese man.”
CHRIS STEIN: The more I travel around, the less I want to live anywhere else than New York. Bill, you live next door to where we used to live on the Bowery.
HARRY: We used to live in a haunted building.
BURROUGHS: What haunted it?
HARRY: On top of the liquor store. We had a doll factory that had employed child labor.
STEIN: When we moved into the place things went berserk, they were flying round all the time.
HARRY: Fires!
STEIN: It was a really big floor through on three floors, totally destroyed, but I found these old things in there from the forties, old plaques.
HARRY: There were bullet holes in the windows from the Mafia when they had the place.
BURROUGHS: What were these psychic phenomena that occurred? Tell me about it.
HARRY: There was an entrance that came up from street level, a narrow long staircase that was very dark, and at the top of the staircase there was a flat wall with a doorway in it, and Chris decided to paint this wall black. Suddenly there was loud knocking and he saw like a little boy.
STEIN: Flashed on a little kid. It was more like a feeling. It was more like a presence.
BURROUGHS: Did you have any impression of the child’s age?
STEIN: Eight, nine.
BURROUGHS: Was there anyone in the vicinity of this whole operation that young?
STEIN: No, there were no little kids around.
BURROUGHS: Because, as you probably know about poltergeists, they almost always manifest themselves through young people.
STEIN: Our adolescent bass player was constantly having nervous breakdowns.
BURROUGHS: That’s it! That’s it!
STEIN: Gary was almost electrocuted.
BURROUGHS: Wow! Sounds like real poltergeists.
STEIN: I came into the room and there he was clutching this lamp. I knocked it out of his hand. He was standing there; his clothes were fried.
BURROUGHS: God! How terrible.
AT THE BUNKER
Burroughs currently lives on the Bowery in a large three-room apartment which used to be the locker room of a gymnasium. He calls it the Bunker. Going to the Bunker can be a hazardous experience, and in fact William personifies more than any other man I have ever met a person aware of the hazards surrounding him. He has recently equipped me with a cane, a tube of tear gas, and a blackjack. “I would never go out of the house without all three on me,” he says pointedly.
In fact, walking down the street in a dark blue chesterfield, his homburg pulled down over one eye, a cane swinging alertly from his right hand, Bill steps right out of a Kerouac novel.… I was constantly struck by the similarity of Kerouac’s portraits of Bill to the William who was slowly becoming revealed to me during the time I was constructing this portrait.
It wasn’t until late 1975 that Burroughs found what would become his GHQ New York City. The Bunker is an elegant old red brick building. One of the first people I ever brought over to visit him was the British writer Christopher Isherwood, whose novels and travel books Burroughs had read and admired as well as used, and his companion the artist Don Bachardy. I turned on my tape recorder just as the cab pulled up in front of the locked iron gate of the Bunker on the chilly, deserted, windswept Bowery.
Bockris with Chris Stein, Burroughs, and Deborah Harry at his apartment after dinner. Photo by Bobby Grossman
BOCKRIS [on the street]: A foreboding entrance. It’s rather hard to get in here sometimes; it depends on whether the gate’s open or not. Bill will come down and unlock the gate.
DON BACHARDY: Is that because it’s a bad part of town?
BOCKRIS: I don’t think that’s the reason. It’s a big building and they lock the gate. Bill doesn’t personally lock it. [We walk across the street to a bar half a block away. Icy wind. People wrapped in blankets leer out of doorways.] Now this bar’s perfectly safe, we’ll call Bill and he’ll come down. [Open door, go into bar, loud noises of laughing, shouting, breaking glass, screams. Christopher and Don run very close behind. Voices from various conversations appear on tape: “That’s my two dollars” etc.] Is there a telephone in the bar?
BARTENDER: Nope. There’s one right across the street.
CHRISTOPHER ISHERWOOD [gleefully]: It’s so Eugene O’Neill! [Open door into second bar. Repeat of above atmosphere. Voices drift in and out of the tape: “You and me are gonna meet tomorrow, you better believe it! When your friend ain’t around. I’ve had enough of your shit! All your goddam friends!’”]
BOCKRIS: This is part of visiting William Burroughs though, isn’t it? [On phone]: Hi! James! We’re down on the corner here … [Hangs up.] They’re coming down. [Walks out into street.] Is it worse to be a drug addict or an alcoholic do you think?
ISHERWOOD: God, I don’t know. I never tried either.
BOCKRIS: You do see more alcoholics in the world. It seems that drug addicts either die or else they don’t get in such bad shape.
ISHERWOOD: I’ve drunk rather a lot during my life, but I never came anywhere near to being an alcoholic.
BOCKRIS: [Burroughs’ secretary, James Grauerholz, appears behind the iron door with a key. We walk up a flight of stone steps.] I’ll lead the way. [They walk into William Burroughs’ spacious apartment.] I’ll introduce everyone. [They shake hands, nod, smile.]
BURROUGHS: Why don’t you take off your coats, gentlemen. [All put coats in Bill’s room next to his pyjamas, which are lying neatly folded on his bed, come back into living room and sit in a series of office-style orange armchairs around a large conference table that Burroughs has in the kitchen section of his apartment.]
GRAUERHOLZ: Can I get you a drink?
EVERYBODY: YES!
ISHERWOOD [looking around]: This is a marvelous place.
BURROUGHS: There are no windows. On the other hand, there’s no noise. This whole building was a YMCA. This used to be the locker room. The man upstairs has the gymnasium and downstairs is the swimming pool. It’s a furniture shop now.
BOCKRIS: Why did you move from Franklin Street to the Bunker?
BURROUGHS: I was very dissatisfied with walking up those stairs in Franklin Street; also they were putting up the rent. The “in” was John Giorno, who has a place upstairs. The landlord showed me this place. No one wanted it because it didn’t have any windows. It was used for storage then. The sink was already in and the shower and toilet. I decided to take it. It was originally one space so we put up these partitions. James moved in first for about six months, and then I moved out of Franklin Street. I was trying to sell it because I’d spent a good deal of money on Franklin Street. It was in a pretty bad state when I moved in and by the time I had bought a refrigerator and put in a sink and a set of cabinets and some reflooring, it cost me $7,000. But nobody would give me anything for it, so I finally gave it to Malcolm McNeil, who lives there now. I happened to hit the market at the wrong time. Also, nobody wanted it because it was a three-story walkup. Now it’s a hell of a thing to have a refrigerator brought up three flights. It costs you a lot extra.
BOCKRIS: What gave you the idea to paint the Bunker’s floors white?
BURROUGHS: When I first moved in it was battleship gray and it looked dingy. It’s obvious you need all the light you can get in here since there isn’t any natural light and I was very pleased with the results. There is of course no view, but what kind of view did I have at Franklin Street? I had some buildings to look at. Also I have four doors between me and the outside and I have people down there in the daytime. It’s pretty impregnable.
BOCKRIS: This entry via telephone system is good. No one can come knock at the door unexpectedly and bother you.
BURROUGHS: I think it’s better this way. I am very comfortable here.
DINNER WITH SYLVERE LOTRINGER, GERARD MALANGA, AND DEBBIE HARRY: NEW YORK 1979
SYLVERE LOTRINGER: When I visited William at the Bunker to discuss plans for the Nova Convention he struck me as totally American. The distance, the twist, the sarcastic tone were, for me, very American. His way of talking is so elaborate and at the same time so Middle American. It’s only by the humor that I connect his conversation to what he writes, though the way he speaks is very much connected to his writing. The emphasis of his voice is very precise. He reminded me of T. S. Eliot.
BURROUGHS: Of course, when you think of it, The Waste Land was the first great cut-up collage.
LOTRINGER: I met T. S. Eliot once when I was in England. I will always remember his diction. He spoke, like Burroughs, as if the sentences were already written down.
MALANGA: Do you find your work makes relationships with people more difficult?
BURROUGHS: I do spend a great deal of time alone. I’m not very gregarious. I don’t like parties or miscellaneous gatherings with no particular purpose. I think parties are largely a mistake. The bigger they are the more mistaken they are. We don’t have such parties here. You wake up the next morning and assess the damages to your premises. I have a few close personal friends who I see regularly. I don’t see a lot of people. I don’t go out a lot.
HARRY: Are you a good cook?
BURROUGHS: I am reasonable, yes.
HARRY: Do you open cans or do you buy things and make them?
BURROUGHS: I cook tastily for as many as ten people.
ON DRUGS
At Burroughs’ apartment, Ter emptied the bag of drug samples onto Bill’s big parlor table, and as I turned on the tape and fired up the bomber, Bill motioned us to fix our drinks, donned his reading glasses, and settled in for a good scrutiny of the dope labels, using a magnifying glass like a jeweler examining precious stones.
BURROUGHS: Now then, what is all this shit, Terry?
TERRY SOUTHERN: Bill, these are pharmaceutical samples, sent by the drug companies to Big Ed Fales, the friendly druggist, and to Doc Tom Adams, the writing croak. Anything that won’t cook up, we’ll eat. Give them good scrutiny, Bill.
BURROUGHS: Indeed I shall.
SOUTHERN: We’ll get them into the old noggin one way or the other! On double alert for Demerol, Dilaudid, and the great Talwin!
BURROUGHS: Pain—I’m on the alert for the word pain … [murmuring, as he examines the label]: Hmm … yes … yes … yes, indeed … [reading from a label]: “Fluid-control that can make life livable.” Well, that could apply to blood, water … [reading another label].
SOUTHERN: All our precious bodily fluids!
BURROUGHS: I’ll just go through these methodically. Anything of interest I’ll put to one side … [makes a separate grouping].
SOUTHERN [getting a paper bag]: We’ll put rejects in here.
BURROUGHS [gesture of restraint]: I’m just picking out what might be of interest … [examining a label]: Here’s a possible [sets it aside].
SOUTHERN: Now a lot of these are new synthetics, Bill—names you may not be familiar with, because they’re disguising the heavy drug within! This could warrant some serious research, and a good article for one of the dope mags—on how the pharmaceutical companies connive to beat the FDA—you know, and get Cosonal back on the shelf! *
BURROUGHS [scrutinizing a bottle]: I don’t really know what this one may be …
SOUTHERN [enthusiastically]: Well then, down the old gullet with it, Bill! Better safe than sorry!
BURROUGHS [dryly]: I think not …
SOUTHERN [picks up a bottle and reads]: “For pimples and acne” [throws it aside in disgust]. Now here … “Icktazinga” [handing it to Bill]: Ring a bell?
BURROUGHS [examining it]: “Chewable.” I’m not much interested in anything chewable … [makes a wry face].
SOUTHERN: But they’re saying, “Chew one at a time,” and I’m saying, “Cook up eight!” If One Will Chew, Eight Will Cook Up! There’s a title for you!
BOCKRIS: Here’s a diuretic.
SOUTHERN: A diuretic may contain paregoric—and you know what that means!
BURROUGHS: No, no …
SOUTHERN: I say a diuretic is chock-a-block full of a spasm-relieving nerve-killer … definitely a coke-based medication!
BURROUGHS: A diuretic …
SOUTHERN: It’ll cook right up, Bill.
BURROUGHS: … is something to induce urination, my dear—that’s all that it is.
SOUTHERN: Is that all a diuretic does? Induce urine?
BURROUGHS: Yes.
SOUTHERN [gravely]: Well, Doctor, I suppose we’re in for another damnable stint of trial-and-error.
BURROUGHS: Yes, I’m afraid so. Such are the tribulations of the legitimate drug industry.
BOCKRIS: Nicotinic acid! What’s that like?
BURROUGHS: That’s vitamins, my dear.
SOUTHERN: Hold on, Doctor, it could be some sort of synthetic speed!
BOCKRIS: Yes, it says, “For prol
onged action.”
BURROUGHS [scrutinizing yet another label]: Pain!—look for the word “pain” … that’s the key.
SOUTHERN: Let “pain” be our watchword!
BURROUGHS: Here we are, this could be it. [He inspects an ancient-looking bottle with dark green label on it.] Yes, this is the stuff. It’s got a little codeine in it.
SOUTHERN: We’ll have to savor it.… But, Bill, I hope you’re not underestimating these synthetic painkillers, just because they’re not labeled heroin or morphine …
BURROUGHS [impatiently]: Man, I know every synthetic …
SOUTHERN: No, no, legitimate drugs have gone underground. Everybody is picking up—it’s a question of the old Miltown syndrome. I mean, they have to be very cool vis-à-vis the FDA—they can’t just say, “Well, this will get you high.”
BURROUGHS: Man, the FDA has to know before they can even send out a sample, believe me.
SOUTHERN [to Bockris]: Bill’s threshold of tolerance is getting narrower.
BOCKRIS: Now here’s one for hypertension—so it’s a down, right?
BURROUGHS: No, hypertension is merely indicative of high blood pressure …
SOUTHERN: But surely it’s a down, man, if it’s antihypertension it must be a down …
BURROUGHS: No, it isn’t.
BOCKRIS [with another]: Now this one could be speed. “Prolonged activity” it says.
SOUTHERN: Good!
BURROUGHS: What kind of activity? I’m not sure I want any more activity.
BOCKRIS [reading]: “Niacin!”
BURROUGHS: Man, don’t you know what niacin is?
SOUTHERN: Down the hatch for heavy action, Bill!
BURROUGHS: You know what niacin is, don’t you? It’s a vitamin-B complex!
SOUTHERN: Has a bit of the old Spanish fly in it, if my guess is any good! Well, let me ask you this, Dr. Benway: do you acknowledge the existence of an attempt to pass on to a not unsuspecting public—au contraire, to an all too eagerly awaiting public—some sort of drug that they would recognize that would occlude pain?
With William Burroughs Page 10