I came across Cain's book recently and it really impressed me; not least because I had never heard of it, or its dead Scottish author, Alexander Trocchi. An active member of the Parisian avant-garde of the late 1950s, he ran an English language literary magazine that published Beckett, amongst others, and was a heroin addict for the last thirty years of his eventful life. Cain's book was his final novel: a bracing autobiographical roman-a-clef, which tells of his life on a scow in New York, heroin addiction and his poverty-stricken upbringing in pre-war Glasgow.
In many ways very reminiscent of William S. Burroughs' famous account of junkie life in the 50s U.S. of A., Junky; it is an altogether different exercise. At once more artful and metafictional than Junky, it is crammed with poetic similes, ;iterary language and references and occasionally-amusing soapbox speeches about the Man and the benefits of heroin. Under the blurb on my copy, it has an illuminating quote from literary giant, Norman Mailer: "It is different from other books, it is true, it has art, it is brave." I would be inclined to agree; and recommend.
The action is near always wildly depressing; the word "cunt" rears its ugly head as much as you would expect in a book by a Scotsman; and it is very graphic. This did lead to it being banned but shouldn't put you off. Nor should sensationalist reports that the book will corrupt young adults and make everyone go off and get horsed up to their eyeballs. It is an authentic, maddening, confusing, yet gripping account; it is, of course, not without its faults but remains incredibly poignant. If you like Kerouac, Ginsburg and other assorted Beats, this book may be for you. Why not give it a go?
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