Because it shows me that people have lived in the way I've lived and haven't totally flamed out into suicidal mania, haven't been totally crushed along the way, but have instead survived and in some cases prospered. I'm not kidding or boasting here. Pretty insane stuff....The notion that some of my weird interests and strange creative productions could actually be a credit to me, something that could be a positive chit in my...chit bag...whatever the fuck you collect gold stars in....that notion is still very new. Just about everything that I've been pursuing for the past eight years has had disaster and pointlessness stamped all over it, in big letters. And not in an exciting and debonair sense of imminent disaster. No, just plain failure.
But in reading the book I am assured that I am not alone in my strangeness. There appear to be constants to marginal bohemia that haven't changed much in the last forty years. I'm still working on my manuscript of translations of the Pyramid Coffin texts into Provençal, a pure poetic language....which is an inside joke in relation to some of the themes of the book.
Find it used, that's what I did. It lurks in a lot of used book stores because people have probably bought it thinking that it was going to be about Jack Kerouac and instead found out that it's about relatively anonymous people living bohemian lives in the East Village of the '60s. And they sell it because of this.
Well, can't help some people.