Burroughs’ writing here is a unique and successful blend of autobiography and detached journalism, unprecedented for that time. The prologue gives Junky an air of authenticity from the outset as the author briefly describes his childhood before plunging into this narrative of a journey – teeming with colorful low-life characters - from the Midwest to New York to Texas to New Orleans, a farm in the Rio Grande Valley, & finally Mexico in his relentless pursuit of the heroin trip.
There is a certain aloofness in the style, giving the reader the impression that you’re only witness to a restricted part of the protagonist’s experiences. For example, the text makes vague references to his wife who obviously journeyed and indulged with him, but no more is told of her, poor Joan. Although “Queer’, which is a more rounded novel, filled in many pieces of the jigsaw, it was only upon reading Ellis Ambrose’s “The Subterranean Kerouac,” that this novel finally made sense and I began to see a fuller picture of Burroughs, his wife and their contemporaries. Anyway, this is a piece of brilliant writing on many levels. The book concludes with a glossary of “junk lingo” or “jive talk” – so that’s what the BeeGees were singing about?