Some Things Are Better on Paper

I had an idea one day that during the times I was wasting my life playing video games on my computer I would, instead of listening to the various sounds the game produced, listen to a book on tape.  I can mute specific programs (and I have a six-core computer, so it can handle multiple programs).  I now digitally download the games so I don't need a disc, and most of the downloads are cheaper than their CD counterparts.  It actually works out pretty well.

A friend, whom I told about this plan, asked me if I would be able to concentrate on the story while playing the video game.  I responded with several points.  First, the games I play on the computer don't require much thought.  I play mostly The Sims and the characters can relatively take care of themselves.  Second, my attention can't be that much worse than someone who listens to books-on-CD while they're driving.  I can pause my game if I feel the need to listen more carefully to the book.  I can't (or wouldn't) pull over to listen in the car.  Third, even when I'm reading if I feel my attention slipping I would probably realize after a few pages that I had no idea what just happened in the story.  So it isn't any different than a normal reading session.  Last, it beats listening to the jibber-jabber of the invented 'simlish' language.

And while it's great for books like Mark Twain or short story collections or the like, today I started listening to a "masterpiece of literature" that is supposed to be stark, real ... naked if you will.  It is titled Naked Lunch by William S. Burroughs. 

I'm sure it's brilliant.  I'm sure it's ground-breaking.  It sure is stark.  But it isn't a book you listen to when your seven-year-old niece is running past your bedroom and she might catch the narrator describing torture techniques involving a sheep shoved up someone's asshole.  You read that correctly - if I heard it correctly, that is.  And I think I did hear that correctly.  I've actually never heard the word 'fag' used so much in my life, and I grew up in middle-America.  There's no story.  The book, at least so far, is a string of instances in the narrator's life - a life of drug abuse, murder, torture, and horrible deaths.  I don't understand what's going on but that's because it isn't linear nor really a story as far as I can tell.  It paints a picture of a time and place, of a culture, a drug culture.  I'm sure it was a pioneer for being so brave and raw. 

The voice actor used to narrate did a bang-up job.  He sounds like every redneck I've ever met, and he adopts a new persona for every new character, which means about once every five minutes.  And he doesn't hold back on being very stereotypical for those characters, either.  A Hispanic woman?  Let's make her sound stupid and a little bit crazy.  A cop?  Let's make him sound mean and a little bit nerdy.  A 'fag'?  Let's not even give him a voice but describe how thrilling it was to watch him get murdered by a drug-addled vigilante. 

I'm not sure why it's considered so brilliant.  I suppose it's the same confusion I find with the beat poets.  I'm just not that interested in drug culture.  During the book's time period (published in 1959) this kind of naked truth about the horrors of the world was unheard of.  So I guess I can respect the book for being honest and daring?  I mean, sure I can.  But I think I'll try, at a later date, to respect it on paper.