Will You Beat Hagiographers Please Be Quiet, Please?

December 28, 2010 | 15 books mentioned 11 7 min read

To get to the movie theater that’s playing the new documentary about William S. Burroughs, I had to pass a six-story tenement at 170 E. 2nd St. on Manhattan’s Lower East Side.  A plaque by the building’s front door reads:

ALLEN GINSBERG (1926-1997) Internationally acclaimed poet and Member of the American Academy of Arts & Letters lived here from August 1958 to March 1961. His signal poem Howl (1956) helped launch The Beat Generation.  Kadish (1961), a mournful elegy for his mother Naomi, was written in apartment #16.

coverThe documentary, William S. Burroughs: A Man Within, taught me several things about the author of Naked Lunch and other scabrous novels that, along with Howl and Jack Kerouac’s On the Road, got the Beat Generation off the launch pad.  I learned that Burroughs was fascinated by poisonous snakes, particularly when they were feeding, and he almost died when he rashly positioned a live mouse within range of a Gaboon viper’s fangs.  I learned that Burroughs was a gun nut who liked to get liquored up before he started blasting, and that his beverage of choice was vodka and Coke.  (This, surely, helps explain the “accident” when Burroughs shot his wife in the head during a drunken game of William Tell in Mexico City in 1951.)  I learned that Burroughs was not much of a father either; his only son died of acute alcoholism at the age of 33.  I learned that the poet-rocker Patti Smith, who recently won a National Book Award for her memoir Just Kids, used to have a crush on Burroughs and that the cult filmmaker John Waters considers Burroughs a “saint” and that Burroughs had a hard time expressing love because he was terrified of rejection and so he usually turned to young gay hustlers for sex and finally I learned that the poet who wrote Howl and Kadish was the great unrequited love of Burroughs’s life.  Ginsberg died on April 5, 1997 and Burroughs died less than four months later and A Man Within suggests, not very convincingly, that Burroughs died of a broken heart.

coverWhew.  That’s a lot of learning to get from a 90-minute documentary.  But now the question must be asked: Am I better for knowing these things – richer, wiser, closer to some essential truths about Burroughs’s literary output?  Not at all.  I’m just a bit more stuffed with useless information because Yony Leyser, the writer-director of A Man Within, is a foot soldier in the army of Beat hagiographers who operate under the illusion that dissecting the personal lives of writers is essential to – even preferable to – understanding their writing.  Burroughs’s writing is barely mentioned in the movie, just a quick note about how he appropriated his “cut-up” technique from the artist Brion Gysin.   For the Beat hagiographers, not only is the work never enough, it’s almost beside the point.  They’re in the business of erecting a cult, after all, and all cults need icons.  It’s telling that A Man Within was released shortly after Howl, a documentary-feature hybrid starring the ubiquitous James Franco as the poet from apartment #16.  At least there’s some poetry in Howl.  At one point an interviewer asks Franco/Ginsberg, “What is the Beat generation?”  He replies: “There is no Beat generation.  It’s just a bunch of guys trying to get published.”

That may have been true in 1957.  No more.  Today the Beat generation is a thriving cottage industry.

coverWhat makes A Man Within such a dreary viewing experience is that it’s largely a parade of talking heads yammering on and on about what Burroughs meant to them.  In addition to Patti Smith and John Waters, we get to hear from Iggy Pop, Jello Biafra, Laurie Anderson, David Cronenberg, Peter Weller (who played Burroughs in Cronenberg’s fine 1991 film version of Naked Lunch and also does this documentary’s voice-over), plus assorted lovers, writers, sycophants, enablers, academics, gun dealers, snake handlers and hangers-on.

covercoverMy favorite of the bunch is Regina Weinreich, who is identified as “a Beat generation scholar.”  While it’s no secret that the academic racketeers can turn just about anything into a “discipline,” Weinreich’s job description struck me as particularly delicious.  Here is a woman who was canny enough to hitch her professional wagon to the Beat caravan more than 20 years ago.  In 1986 she met Paul Bowles while teaching a creative writing workshop in Tangier, where Bowles had moved in the late 1940s.  His home there became a station of the cross on the Beats’ holy itinerary.  The year after she met Bowles, Weinreich co-wrote a documentary, The Beat Generation: An American Dream, that featured archival footage of Ginsberg reading “Howl” and Kerouac reading from On the Road accompanied by Steve Allen on piano.  In 1994 Weinreich and Catherine Warnow co-directed Paul Bowles: The Complete Outsider, an hour-long documentary about the author of the proto-Beat novel The Sheltering Sky.  Weinreich also wrote a critical study called Kerouac’s Spontaneous Poetics and edited Kerouac’s Book of Haikus.  Today she contributes to numerous periodicals, teaches at the School of Visual Arts in New York, talks into cameras and, for good measure, blogs at Gossip Central.

covercovercoverSuch industry is exhausting to contemplate but, it turns out, not unusual among the Beat hagiographers.  The critical studies keep coming and the documentaries keep piling up, with titles like What Happened to Kerouac?, The Life and Times of Allen Ginsberg, The Source (a hash of TV and film clips spiced with performances by Johnny Depp as Kerouac, John Turturro as Ginsberg and Dennis Hopper as Burroughs), and One Fast Move or I’m Gone: Kerouac’s Big Sur.  This last train wreck – people getting weepy talking about Kerouac’s crack-up on the California coast – inspired Slant magazine to ask the one question that must be asked: “Who keeps inviting Patti Smith to these Beat docs?”  Writing in The Millions last year, Lydia Kiesling speculated that Smith keeps getting invited back because she’s “perceived as having a never-ending fund of ‘cred.'”  That must be it.  It can’t possibly be that anyone still cares that she used to have a crush on William S. Burroughs.

I’m no fan of hagiographers, obviously, but I’m only a bit less distrustful of literary biographers.  Too often their books slide toward what Joyce Carol Oates has dubbed “pathography,” which she defined as “hagiography’s diminished and often prurient twin.”  Its motifs are “dysfunction and disaster, illnesses and pratfalls, failed marriages and failed careers, alcoholism and breakdowns and outrageous conduct.”

coverSince we live in an age that’s obsessed with personalities and celebrities, it’s not surprising that so few readers are satisfied with loving a book and so many insist on knowing as much as possible about the person who wrote it.  While this appetite has inspired literary biographers to produce a long shelf of pathographies and other monstrosities – does the world really need Norman Sherry’s three-volume biography of Graham Greene? – it has also resulted in some well researched and finely written literary biographies that did what such exercises do at their best: they led readers back to the subject’s books.  Among these I would include Blake Bailey’s recent biographies of Richard Yates and John Cheever and, strangely enough, Ann Charters’s thorough and balanced 1973 bio of Kerouac.  In her introduction, Charters wrote insightfully, if a bit clunkily: “The value of Kerouac’s life is what he did, how he acted.  And what he did, was that he wrote.  I tried to arrange the incidents of his life to show that he was a writer first, and a mythologized figure afterward.  Kerouac’s writing counts as much as his life.”

coverI would argue that his writing counts more than his life, much more.  Eventually Charters seemed to come around to my way of thinking.  In 1995, after she’d edited two fat volumes, Jack Kerouac: Selected Letters, 1940-1956 and The Portable Jack Kerouac, I interviewed her for a newspaper article.  “I wanted (the book of letters) to be a biography in Jack’s own words,” she told me.  “His life is in his books, but on the other hand the most essential thing is missing from those novels.  What he tells you in the letters is that the most important thing in his life is writing.”

At the time The Gap was using Kerouac’s image – and images of James Dean and Marilyn Monroe and other ’50s icons – to sell its khaki pants.  In the face of such shameless hucksterism, Charters’s insistence on the importance of Kerouac’s writing seemed both quaint and heroic to me.  It still does today, as the hagiographers keep bombarding us with abominations like One Fast Move or I’m Gone and Howl and A Man Within.

In the end I must admit that “A Man Within” did teach me one thing worth knowing.  I’d spent years believing that Allen Ginsberg, Norman Mailer and Truman Capote were the Holy Trinity of Shameless Self-Promoters among American writers.  (That, by the way, is not a putdown; it’s a compliment laced with no small amount of envy.)  Thanks to this documentary, I now realize that Burroughs was easily their equal as a self-promoter.  This came home to me as I watched the archival footage of him rolling up his shirt sleeve and shooting dope into his left arm.  The effect on me was very different from the shiver Yony Leyser was surely hoping for.  My first thought was: No man would allow himself to be filmed shooting dope unless he was eager to package and promote his image as an outlaw.

It’s not hard to see why Burroughs is catnip for documentary filmmakers more than a dozen years after his death.  In his late years he became a weirdly irresistible figure – the bag-eyed, fedora- and three-piece-suit-wearing patrician junkie misanthrope with the deadpan baritone who droned on and on about the rot festering at the core of the American Dream.  He is the closest we’ve ever gotten to an American Jonathan Swift, and he’s to be credited for shunning those who tried to idolize him, including many Beats, hippies, punks and gay libbers.  The only organization I could imagine him joining is the National Rifle Association because, as he put it, “I sure as hell wouldn’t want to live in a society where the only people allowed to have guns are the cops and the military.”  He shrewdly burnished the Burroughs brand by branching into recording and acting, reminding us that the man who wrote Junkie and Naked Lunch could be caustically funny.  His turn as dope-hungry Tom the Priest in Gus Van Sant’s Drugstore Cowboy is not to be missed, and one of the highlights of “A Man Within” is Burroughs reciting his “Thanksgiving Prayer” as Old Glory flutters behind him: “Thanks for a continent to despoil and poison…thanks for bounties on wolves and coyotes…thanks for the American Dream to vulgarize and falsify until the bare lies shine through…”  Sadly, the documentary does not include any of Burroughs’s “Words of Advice for Young People,” such as, “Beware of whores who say they don’t want money.  What they mean is, they want more money.  Much more.”

A word of advice for readers and filmgoers of all ages: Beware of hagiographers who tell you a writer’s life is more important than the books he or she wrote.  It never is.  It might be diverting to watch a guy shoot dope and shoot guns and feed poisonous snakes.  But the books are more important.  Much more.

is a staff writer for The Millions. He is the author of the novels Motor City Burning, All Souls’ Day, and Motor City, and the nonfiction book American Berserk and The Age of Astonishment: John Morris in the Miracle Century, From the Civil War to the Cold War. His writing has appeared in numerous publications, including Granta, The New York Times, The (London) Independent, L.A. Weekly, Popular Mechanics, and The Daily Beast. He lives in New York City.


  1. I thoroughly enjoyed this piece. It’s good to see someone attempt to deflate the Beat Cult a bit. The writing itself stands or falls on its own, but the idolizing of people like Burroughs is quite silly.

  2. I recently became interested in bohemian New York in the 1950s, and started searching for memoirs of the time. I was horrified by Helen Weaver’s superficial “The Awakener,” which recounts her two-month affair with Jack Kerouac. The topic was enough material for one short essay at the most, plus Weaver does not offer any interesting observations or insight. I was so disappointed that I almost didn’t bother getting Joyce Johnson’s “Minor Characters.” But I’m glad I did, as it was a beautifully-written (and fairly dark) account of that period. Kerouac’s presence is not the focus of the book, Joyce’s life as an uncoventional woman in very conventional times is. I highly recommend it. Those two books offered quite a contrast between someone cashing in on a famous name and another using it as a springboard for a fascinating meditation.

  3. This is a triumph, Bill!

    I’m still recovering from the aesthetic assault of One Fast Move…

  4. I was Ginsberg’s teaching assistant and friend, and one of the talking heads (the fat one with the shaving cut) in “A Man Within” — probably one of the sycophants or hangers-on, since I wasn’t William’s lover. Though this piece slags several friends of mine, I enjoyed reading it. It’s well-done scathing bitchery, and yes: “The books are more important.”

  5. Bill,
    You nailed it, hit it out of the park. And I speak from intimate personal experience.

    My last year in graduate school (which I attended only because it was on the Virginia Beach Public Schools’ dime — they sent two teachers a year to grad school for free, and after just one year teaching 10th grade English, I was lucky enough to be chosen), I had to decide on a master’s thesis topic. I initially took a stab at Virginia Woolf, but besides feeling no particular passion for the subject, I quickly found that about 73,000 master’s theses had been written on Virginia Woolf. So I shelved her and looked for someone less masticated.

    That someone was Kerouac. Like you, I was sick of all the biography. Almost everything written about, and even by, the Beats was, in one form or another, biographical. One nice thing about tackling Kerouac from the angle of the work itself — the art, not the artist — was that this was virtually uncharted territory.

    Long story short is, knowing that your man Burroughs had handed a young Jack Kerouac, who was still a Columbia student at the time, the massive two-volume set of Oswald Spengler’s “Decline of the West,” and knowing that Kerouac had dutifully read those couple of thousand words and had been blown away by them, eventually incorporating many of Spengler’s concepts — from the “primitive beat” of the indigenous “fellaheens” who inhabited the decaying nooks and crannies of our crumbling “culture”-turned-sterile-“civilization,” to the modern “Faustian” man, out of touch with the world around him, manically racing this way and that to make contact with the “authentic” (Neal Cassady, do I hear you?) — I wrote my thesis, titled, “Man Out of Time: Kerouac, Spengler, and the ‘Faustian Soul’ .” An excerpt wound up being published in an academic journal called “Studies in American Fiction,” just before I took off on the journalistic trail we now both share. I still have the letter somewhere from that publication, addressed to “Professor D’Orso.” I guess I owe that to Spengler, through Jack.

    Which is all to say, great piece, Billy boy — right on the nose.

  6. Bill —

    You did a great job with this piece and it got me to thinking (and writing). I decided to write a response (of sorts) on The Huffington Post. The ideas you finger here are always on the mind of the biographer as he or she is writing and being read. The questions of intent and whether we are critical enough haunts us. Anyway, anyway….I was a student of Allen Ginsberg, so your reference too him really got me going. Again, nice work and many thanks. Long live “the bookish.” Joe.


  7. Joe Woodward –

    Thanks for your kind words about my essay, and double thanks for your wonderful response at The Huffington Post. I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree on one thing, though. While you believe a writer’s life is what matters – “the life is all there is,” as you put it – I’m sticking with my conviction that a writer’s books will always be more important than his or her life. No less an authority than William Faulkner agreed with me on this. He wanted the epitaph on his gravestone to read: “He made the books, and he died.” Perfect. Alas, his wife Estelle ordered the stone cutters to carve: “Beloved, go with God.” Damn editors! Well, thanks again, Joe, and good luck with your Nathanael West book. Long live the bookish – and books.

    Bill Morris

  8. “The Sheltering Sky” has been with me a long time; can’t say the same about the author though, which is another way of saying I agree with your thesis completely. I have never gravitated toward books where the author’s personality and life overshadow the story.

    Thanks, brother. Enjoy and admire your work, as always.

    Lisa Fecke

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