In none of the other of Burroughs' novels are his political and social intuitions laid out with so much candour. In parts this 'novel' is a barely disguised manifesto against the hypocrisies of the world, and at other times a light (!) and effective collection of 'routines'. The book is inhabited by the usual collection of incarnations of Burroughs himself, camp officials, murderous doctors and a masturbating baboon for U.S. president. Throughout, and despite all this familiar chaos, the book has an ordered feel and is actually a delicately balanced exploration of Burroughs' favourite themes: drugs, sexuality and control. The absence of a singular narrative is, as usual, incidental, the author having preferred to develop the book solely along the lines of its substance. Exterminator, as one would expect, does veer into the realm of the obtusely abstract at times, but for once this adds to Burroughs' intrigue and the sense that you're getting something just a little bit deep.