A review by smithmick14
Naked Lunch by William S. Burroughs

Literally Scrotie McBoogerballs.

Another metaphor because I have no original thoughts. In The French Dispatch there’s a scene where Adrien Brody’s character says something along the lines of, “if you want to see if an abstract artist is actually good and not just messing with you, then just get them to draw something basic and if they do a really good job then you know that they’re legit and are just more interested in abstract expression than something easier to ingest.” This book felt like that being sandwiched by a very legible preface and appendix around about 150 pages of the most grotesque imagery imaginable.