Given That External Reality Is A Fiction,

Burroughs Called His Greatest Novel Naked Lunch, By Which He Meant It's What You See On The End Of A Fork. He's A Writer Of Enormous Richness Whose Books Are A Kind Of Attempt To Blow Up This Cozy Conspiracy, To Allow Us To See What's On The End Of The Fork . . . The Truth.

The American Dream Has Run Out Of Gas. The Car Has Stopped. It No Longer Supplies The World With Its Images, Its Dreams, Its Fantasies. No More. It's Over. It Supplies The World With Its Nightmares Now: The Kennedy Assassination, Watergate, Vietnam.

I Accepted That A New Kind Of Hate Had Emerged, Silent And Disciplined, A Racism Tempered By Loyalty Cards And Pin Numbers. Shopping Was Now The Model For All Human Behaviour, Drained Of Emotion And Anger.

The Only Truly Alien Planet Is Earth.

Lysenkoism: A Forlorn Attempt Not Merely To Colonize The Botanical Kingdom, But To Instill A Proper Sense Of The Puritan Work Ethic And The Merits Of Self-improvement.