William S. Burroughs on heroin addiction

It’s 1977 and writer William S. Burroughs is being interviewed on a Canadian television talk show.

It’s a simple set. Peter Gzowski is the host in a suit behind a fake wood desk and potted plants. Hot lights, large glass ashtray, yellow legal pad lined with questions.

William S. Burroughs sits across from him, hands folded in his lap. Draped in the armour of conformity - soft grey suit, pale pistachio shirt, hard black tie. Eyes peering out of browline glasses, thinning grey hair combed to one side, gaunt sideburns, gashed smile, ashen skin.

Serious men in suits. Talking about serious things. Burroughs is rake thin, pinched, his voice flat, dry, Midwestern. There’s no cadence or tone. Just the facts.

‘You see a writer can profit from things that are unpleasant or even boring to someone else because he uses that as material for writing. I don’t regret the experiences that have led to “Naked Lunch” and subsequent books.

Burroughs looks at Gzowski.

‘Incidentally, the damage to health is minimal, no matter what the American Narcotics Department says.’

Studio audience sniggers.

‘But it has done things to your soul?’

Burroughs tries to suppress a laugh, lolls his head. Studio audience claps.

‘Well, one of the early authorities like DeQuincy would never have lived to be seventy-two unless he had taken opium because he had tuberculosis. I think he would say what I say - that he didn’t regret his experiences with drugs.’

Gzowski is flummoxed.

‘Well, I won’t argue whether there is any permanent damage to health, any severe damage. But talk for a moment about being on the bottom?’

Burroughs looks bemused. Gzowky presses on.

‘Why do junkies never bathe?’

Studio audience shifts in their seats. Burroughs seems perplexed as he answers.

‘They get like cats. They can’t stand water on their skin for some reason or another. They rarely bathe.’

‘What happens to your perception of reality?’

‘Well, junk or any kind of opiate is a painkiller and therefore will lessen your perception of reality.’

‘What happens to your sexual appetite?’

‘Practically non-existent.’

‘What happens to your appetite for food?’

‘It definitely reduces your appetite.

‘What happens to your ability to cope with day-to-day crises.’

‘Nothing. I’ve been in England where addicts obtain their heroin quite legally through doctors. Many of them - many of the addicts - are lawyers, doctors, bankers, et cetera.

Burroughs leans back.

‘As far as creative work goes I would say very definitely contraindicated. I would never have been able to write “Naked Lunch” for example unless I’d been of heroin.’

‘Are you still a junkie?

Burroughs tightens his lips, shakes his head.

‘No. Absolutely not. I haven’t been addicted to opiates for years.’