=An Alphabet of My Creative Icons=

Brion Gysin lived a life as varied and multiple as any of his literary/pictorial cut-ups. You might say his life was an experiment in consciousness. The experiment began when he was born in England on January 19th 1916. He didn’t stay there long.

In Paris, at age 19, he was a surrealist. But he didn't stay a surrealist a long time either—at least not officially. He was yet another victim of Andre Breton’s self-important penchant for excommunicating people from the movement. From that rupture he moved on, engaging in a surrealistic farrago of occupations:

He was a costume assistant who worked on several Broadway musicals.

During World War II, he became a welder in Bayonne, New Jersey.

He shared a studio with the surrealist painter Roberto Matta.

He was one of the first Fulbright scholars.

He discovered the original text that served as the model for Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin.

After the war he toured North Africa with Paul Bowles. Together they “discovered” Muslim music and introduce it to Western audiences.

He opened a restaurant in Tangier, which eventually closed down, the result, it was rumored, of a curse.

He devised the “cut-up” method of writing. He passed his discovery on to a man he meets by chance on the street. That man was William S. Burroughs.

They became lifelong friends.

He said: “Writing is 50 years behind painting.”

He said:  I AM AN ARTIST WHEN I AM OPEN. WHEN I AM CLOSED I AM BRION GYSIN.

He provided the infamous recipe for hashish/marijuana fudge in the Alice B. Toklas cookbook.

He incorporated magic and personalized calligraphy into his large grid-pattern paintings.

He said: As no two people see the world the same way, all trips from here to there are imaginary; all truth is a tale I’m telling myself.

He said: The area of poetry must be constantly re-created.

He said: Man is a bad animal.

He said: Life is a game, not a career.

He said: What are we here for? That conundrum is all that ever held us here in the first place. That—and fear. What are we here for? I’ll tell you. We are here to go!

He said: Writers don’t own their words. Since when do words belong to anybody? Your very own words indeed! And who are you?

Brion Gysin was here to go until he went, blasting off from Paris, France, on July 13th 1986. Lung cancer provided the fuel, enabling him to achieve escape velocity.

William S. Burroughs said: Brion Gysin is the only man I have ever respected.

Enough said.