Druggy literature can be paralsyingly boring. Childish, repetitive and with a masturbatory sense of its own importance, even the greats – De Quincey’s Confessions of an English Opium-Eater, say; or Huxley’s The Doors of Perception – posture unappealingly. And there were parts of On the Road that prompted me to hurl it aside and wonder […]
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