Howard Marks' book of Dope Stories
“For every hour here was Old Junkie’s Hour and the walls were the color of old junkies’ dreams: the hue of diluted morphine in the moment before the needle draws the suffering blood.
Walls that went up and up like walls in a troubled dream. Walls like water where no legend could be written and no hand grasp metal or wood. Nor Nifty Louie paid the rent and Frankie knew too well who the landlord was.
He had met him before, that certain down-at-heel vet growing stooped from carrying a thirty-five-p...ound monkey on his back. Frankie remembered that face, ravaged by love of its own suffering as by some endless all-night orgy. A face forged out of his own wound fever in a windy ward tent on the narrow Meuse. He had met Private McGantic before: both had served their country well. This was the fellow who looked somehow a little like everyone else in the world and was more real to a junkie than any real man could be. The projected image of one’s own pain when that pain has become too great to be borne.MoreLess
Walls that went up and up like walls in a troubled dream. Walls like water where no legend could be written and no hand grasp metal or wood. Nor Nifty Louie paid the rent and Frankie knew too well who the landlord was.
He had met him before, that certain down-at-heel vet growing stooped from carrying a thirty-five-p...ound monkey on his back. Frankie remembered that face, ravaged by love of its own suffering as by some endless all-night orgy. A face forged out of his own wound fever in a windy ward tent on the narrow Meuse. He had met Private McGantic before: both had served their country well. This was the fellow who looked somehow a little like everyone else in the world and was more real to a junkie than any real man could be. The projected image of one’s own pain when that pain has become too great to be borne.MoreLess
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