"Cities of the Red Night": Burroughs' end-of-days

The shiver of contemplating The End of Everything As We Know It seems to be an escalating thrill, not only in extreme religious contexts, but in election year politics and pop culture as well. Beyond the swooning visions of heaven, hell and Armageddon- originating-in-the-White-House depending on the November vote, William Burroughs' truly scarifying Cities of the Red Night. is one of the better contributions to Apocalyptic fiction (secular division).

 Published in 1980, Cities of the Red Night is part of a trilogy (including The Place of Dead Roads in 1984, and finally, The Western Lands, 1988) in which Burroughs is the master of disaster from the personal to the universal, the greying misanthrope giving reign to his darkest thoughts about the human condition.

The book is dark and discomfiting, and very trippy. Plague, check. 18th-century pirates, check. A crew of very ill, very doomed lost boys, check. But there's also a contemporary element of detective fiction slamming the elements of time and space together like H.G. Wells after dropping a tab of LSD in a visit to Owsley Stanley: a time-tripping Apocalypse that would make the Mayans tremble with anticipation.

Here's a brief sample, certainly not for the squeamish, but who really expects the end-of-the-world to be a polite waltz? This is merely the Invocation and a summoning of forces to witness the End of Days, which (after all) is merely the beginning chapter to something else. Burroughs dedicates his tale to those who have been waiting ... waiting patiently ... since ancient days:

Everyone's Uncle Bill: "Everything is permitted"

This book is dedicated to the Ancient Ones, to the lord of Abominations, Humwawa, whose face is a mass of entrails, whose breath is the stench of dung and the perfume of Death, dark angel of all that is excreted and sours, Lord of Decay, Lord of the Future, who rides on a whispering south wind.

To Pazuzu, Lord of Fevers and Plagues, Dark Angel of the Four Winds with rotting genitals from which he howls through sharpened teeth over stricken cities.

To Kutulu, the Sleeping Serpent who cannot be summoned, to the Akhkharu, who suck the blood of men since they desire to become men, to Gelal and Lilit, who invade the beds of men and whose children are born in secret places, to Addu, raiser of storms, who can fill the night sky with brightness, to Malah, Lord of courage and bravery, to Zagurim, whose number is twenty-three and who kills in unnatural fashion, to Zahrim, a warrior among warriors, to Itzamna, Spirit of Early Mists and Showers, to Ix Chel, the Spider-Web-that-Catches-the-Dew-of-Morning, to Zuhuy Kak, Virgin Fire, to Ah Dziz, the Master of Cold, to Kak U Pacat, who works in fire.

To Ix Tab, Godess of Ropes and Snares, patroness of those who hang themselves, to Schmuun, the Silent One, brother of Ix Tab, to Xolotl the Unformed, Lord of Rebirth, to Aguchi, Master of Ejaculations, to Osiris and Amen in phallic form, to Hex Chun Chan, the Dangerous One, to Ah Pook the Destroyer, to the Great Old One and the Star Beast, to Pan, God of Panic, to the nameless gods of dispersal and emptiness, to Hassan i Sabbah, Master of the Assassins.

To all the scribes and artists and practitioners of magic through whom these spirits have been manifested ....

NOTHING IS TRUE. EVERYTHING IS PERMITTED.

An LA Times reviewer wrote of the book: "... In it, the world ends with a bang — and a barely perceived whimper, disguised by the wicked smile of one of the most dazzling magicians of our time." The Invocation is a kind of Dante-esque welcome to the hell-on-earth in Cities of the Red Night, if the reader can stand it. It's just a shame all of Burroughs' welcome wouldn't fit on an interstate billboard: now, that would really be a rapturous traffic-stopping event.

Charles Gatewood's "Sidetripping": William Burroughs, the loup garou of Mardi Gras

Today is Mardi Gras, or Fat Tuesday. In New Orleans or Metarie, and from Jefferson Parish to Baton Rouge, the krewes and their kings will be parading until long after sundown. Revelers are urged to beware loup-garou, who as Cajun children all know, is the werewolf who is always out to snare them. Tomorrow begins the 40 days of fasting and pennance before Easter known as Lent in the Catholic church. Until the streets are cleared of their final guests at midnight, laissez bon-temps rouler!

In the early 1970s photographer Charles Gatewood compiled a book of images he titled Sidetripping, 90 photographs that capture the oblique angles of human nature: glimpses that more often require a second look, a quick scene captured out of the corner of the eye that one may have only imagined. The book was republished in a new edition by Last Gasp in 2002.

Here is an excerpt from Gatewood's memoir, Dirty Old Man, about his frustrating attempts to get the book published. On assignment in London with Rolling Stone writer Robert Palmer to do a feature story on William Burroughs, in 1972, Gatewood approached Burroughs with the assembled photographs. The literary loup-garou agreed to write Gatewood an introduction to the book, and the photographer was overjoyed.

On the last day of our visit, I showed William Burroughs my Sidetripping book-dummy. He liked my bizarre photos, especially the naked “St. Sebastian” boy being led away by uniformed cops at Mardi Gras. He also liked my photo of a drunk fraternity boy pissing on Bourbon Street. “Wild boys,” said William. “Fine work.”

I knew Burroughs believed in verbal sorcery and the power of word-magic. Certain word combinations could be deadly, he said. Words had power. Words could kill.

“I want to make photographs that kill,” I told him.
“When Sidetripping is published,” said Burroughs, “viewers will die, for sure.”
My palms got all sweaty. “Would you write an introduction to the book?”
“Why certainly,” said William. “I’ll be delighted.”

Oh my! William S. Burroughs would introduce my book! Never mind that I didn’t have a publisher — I would certainly find one now!

In April, 1972, Burroughs sent me his three-page introduction to Sidetripping. I read the text with great excitement. It began splendidly, with a sly carny come-on:

"Step right up for the greatest show on earth. The biologic show. Any being you ever imagined in your wildest and dirtiest dreams is here and yours for a price. The biologic price you understand money has no value here … "

After quoting from New Scientist magazine (a piece about brain research), Burroughs continued:

"Charles Gatewood the sidetripping photographer takes what the walker didn’t quite see, something or somebody he may have looked quickly away from and the photo reminds him of something deja vu back in front of his eyes."

Burroughs went on to compare photographers to thieves — a nice touch. He also told how a writer named Dunne in his 1924 book An Experiment With Time found that some incidents in his dreams referred to future time:

"Point is he discovered that his dream referred not to the dream itself but to the account and photos in newspaper."

This was a cool observation — I’ve experienced pre-cognitive dreams too, many times. ...Sidetripping ends with a frat boy pissing in the street as his drunken friends watch:

"Look at the boy’s face. Smiling in the ruins. Dying? So what? We shall overcome. Ambiguous familiar in his face death child with a wide grin ambiguous familiar. AH POOK PISSED HERE."

What kind of ending was that? And who the hell was Ah Pook?

I really couldn’t criticize William’s text — could I? After all, he’d written it as a courtesy, for free. It was all I had. It would have to do.

I cut the Burroughs text into sections, and plugged the text into my Sidetripping book-dummy. There were gaps, for sure, plus that weird ending — but the surreal text did bounce off my raw photos in some powerful ways. At any rate, William Burroughs’ name now graced the cover of my book, and that was a big step forward. ...

Charles Gatewood, 2001

As it turned out, the images in Sidetripping were more confrontational than even the mysteries in Burroughs' text. In a 1996 interview Gatewood explained to Joe Donahoe:

I decided to do a photography book that would show all the madness and ask the basic question "Who is really crazy here?" I've got straight mainstream types, like here's a business man and his wife drunk at Mardi Gras, just regular folks [the "regular folks" stagger inanely, the man has the plastic rings of a Budweiser six-pack looped through his belt support, the woman plows into him with an unnatural looking motion, both have the expression and appearance of rural serial murderers]. Here's a couple of hippies drunk on Bourbon Street [two hippie kids appear out of the dark. Madness can't be said to have claimed them. Two more well mannered young people you couldn't ask for]. Here's some policemen beating up a Yippie. Here's some hard hats out to kill some freak.

There's an old Dylan song that goes "You write for your side, I'll write for mine." So I just wanted to put it all down and let others sort it out. I put a lot of Mardi Gras stuff in here. That's an event where people can get together and celebrate their deviance. That's where I first saw heavily tattooed and pierced guys.

Gatewood writes in a postscript at the RealityStudio site: "In 2011 am producing a deluxe William Burroughs book with Dana Dana Dana editions in San Francisco. It will be a handmade artist’s book containing all the best photos from our 1972 shoot, plus previously unpublished photos of William Burroughs with Jimmy Page in 1975. The book will be similar to A Complete Unknown, my limited edition artist’s book about Bob Dylan. Only 23 copies of (the Burroughs book) will be produced."

Loup-garou

However you celebrate, enjoy Mardi Gras 2012 and don't let loup-garou get his paws on you! For a French-Canadian folktale about the night prowler beast, here's a link to Rowland Robinson's 1894 book of stories, Danvis Folks.

For Mardi Gras: a late-night meeting with a loup-garou

A Loup-garou (image from Wikipedia.)

Here is a blood-chilling folk tale concerning a loup-garou, or werewolf, appearing -- out of nowhere! -- to menace a well-meaning husband, who is saved from certain disaster by the parish priest (and whiskey). With notes and further links from the fascinating website New England Folklore, curated by Peter M in Boston.

Tomorrow, laissez bon-temps rouler ... but always take care!

Many years ago on a dark snowy night a man left his warm house and hitched the horse to his sleigh. His wife was ill, and maybe close to death, so he was going to get the local Catholic priest.

As he rode down the forest road, all he heard was the hiss of the sleigh's runners and the thudding of the horse's hooves. The snow was good for sleighing and soon he was near the church.

Suddenly, the horse slowed down and the sleigh barely moved forward. The man whipped the horse, but to no avail. It was as if the sleigh was suddenly burdened with a two ton load.

Looking back, the man saw a large black wolf with its front paws on the rear of the sleigh. Its hind legs stood in the snow, and was stopping the sleigh from moving forward. The wolf's yellow eyes burned bright in the darkness.

Fear gripped the man's heart. No ordinary wolf was strong enough to stop a sleigh. This was something far worse! It was a loup-garou, a man who had sold himself to the Devil who could turn into a wolf. Sometimes the loup-garous just ate corpses, but sometimes they liked their dinner to be fresher.

The creature jumped fully onto the sleigh, and the sleigh shot forward as the horse pulled harder than ever. The loup-garou stalked to the front of the sleigh and put its front paws on the driver's shoulders. The weight was so heavy the man thought he would be crushed.

In a panic he searched his pockets for his knife. If he could cut the loup-garou its devilish magic would be dispelled and it would turn back into a human. But in the dark night, distracted by the monster's hot breath on his face, he couldn't find it.

By this point the sleigh reached the churchyard and the priest opened the front door. Seeing what was happening, he said a brief prayer. Instantly the monstrous wolf turned back into a man, who fled into the forest.

Luckily the priest had a good supply of whiskey to calm the man's nerves. Even luckier, his wife recovered from her illness and didn't die.

**********

Rowland Robinson apparently wrote fourteen fictional books which incorporated real folkore from New England. Unfortunately, he wrote most of his dialogue in dialect so it's hard for a modern reader to understand. For example, here's a direct quote from the loup-garou story, which is told by a Vermonter of French-Canadian descent. Robinson is trying to capture the storyteller's Quebecois accent:

"De hoss was scare an' run lak hol' hurricanes, 'cause de loup garou gat hees behin' foots off de graound an' can' pull back som more."

My guess at a translation: "The horse was scared and ran like old (?) hurricanes because the loup garou got his behind feet off the ground and can't pull back some more."

If you don't mind a lot of crazy dialect writing, you can find the entire text of Danvis Folks on Google Books for free.