William S. Burroughs? No Thank You...

Cities of the Red Night
William S. Burroughs
Picador
352 pp

There are times when you know something is probably good and you know others think its probably good and for some reason, you should probably read that something but no matter how many times you try, you just can’t ever get over the mind-fuck that ensues. And yes, there are good mind-fucks but sometimes, there are also bad mind-fucks. This one is a terrible mind-fuck. 

The premise is awesome: lots of people are dying because of an epidemic/plague/what-have-you and some queer stuff takes place (it is Burroughs after all) and then there aspects of time-travel and alien beings. 

“Great, fantastic… I can’t wait to read this book. Sign me up!” 

That’s what I thought the first time I tried to read this book, back in 2009. CITIES OF THE RED NIGHT is one of those books you really must read in spurts. It’s just so fucking dense and confusing that, I feel, it’s less confusing to take one-step at a time, or in my case, one day at a time. I tried to read it for a month. I couldn’t. 

After about 200 pages, I couldn’t do it anymore. The mind-fuckery was oozing into my social life and friends said I was starting to look glum and down and sad, all for no apparent reason. That's because they didn't realize/know I was reading CITIES OF THE RED NIGHT. I was too busy thinking about the damn book and asking myself why it was so damn hard to understand.

Then I thought: is it maybe because he’s British? But then I realized that was a stupid notion since there are plenty of other British authors I know and love. So I guess I tried to read this again, this time December 2011 and yeah, I would read this during bathroom breaks over the holidays and yes, I even started from the beginning, again.

This time around though, I found myself liking the beginning a whole lot more, maybe because I already sort of knew what to expect. But yeah, I read about 10 pages a day and kept at it. Until sometime in January, where it just got to reading seeming like a chore—which is a problem really since I think reading is usually fun. But if I dread going to the bathroom (since it is in the bathroom that I forced myself to read CITIES OF THE RED NIGHT) then something is wrong.

And that’s when I decided to toss the book. Or, I guess, erm… pass it off as a present to some friends. Poor bastards.

Edit: As it turns out, Burroughs isn't even British...