Emanations Vol. 8

The eighth volume of the critically acclaimed Emanations literary anthology series, Octo-Emanations , includes a new Penny Turin story by Bill Ectric, “The Psychogeography of the Gnostic Phalanx Society.” The book also contains stunning new art, illustrations, and writing from around the world. The forty-two contributors represent South Korea, Canada, India, Oman, Kenya, Nepal, France, Nigeria, the United Kingdom, Morocco, Kosovo, Spain, the Philippines, Sweden, Japan, and the United States. Comprising a broad range of perspectives, this edition also includes a special new section featuring visual fine arts pieces with artists’ statements, making it one of the most exciting projects of the International Authors publishing house to date.

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Bill Ectric, Gary Westfahl, and others appear in an Iranian documentary called No Heaven For Gunga Din, written, directed, and produced by filmmaker Seyed Gholamreza Nematpour.

Bill Ectric
Gary Westfahl

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Didion on Burroughs

TheSoftMachine

1966 is calling.

At a site called The Beat Patrol, I found a good review by Joan Didion, an author I really like, on William S. Burroughs, another author I really like. Originally published in 1966 in Bookweek, NOT the modern Book Week for children’s books), it begins:

There sometimes seems a peculiar irrelevance about what is claimed for William S. Burroughs, both by those who admire him and those who do not; the insistent amorphousness of his books encourages the reader to take from them pretty much exactly what he brought to them. Burroughs has been read as a pamphleteer for narcotics reform. He has been read as a parabolist of the highest order. He has been read as a pornographer and he has been read as a prophet of the apocalypse. The Naked Lunch I read first on a beach in the Caribbean and the Naked Lunch I reread a few weeks ago in a hospital in Santa Monica, the book I read once when I was unhappy and again when I was not, did not seem in any sense the same book; to anyone who finds Burroughs readable at all, he is remarkably rereadable, if only because he is remarkably unmemorable. There are no “stories” to wear thin, no “characters” of whom one might tire. We are presented only with the fragmented record of certain fantasies, and our response to that record depends a good deal upon our own fantasies at the moment; in itself, a book by William Burroughs has about as much intrinsic “meaning” as the actual inkblot in a Rorschach test.

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