Never has any man's voice been so lilting and masculine. In these mid-‘60s recordings he still sounds as though he is beyond the groundbreaking techniques that he and Brion Gysion came to discover at their hotel in Tangiers. It is early for him. There is the voice of a tired man, a man who's been up late attempting to destroy the blueprint for writing that has been followed since the invention of prose. Writing has fallen behind, he tells us, at least 50 years behind painting. He explains that by using the ideals of the montage, writing can move forward. Cut and paste, double text back on itself, use the present existing texts to reveal the future underneath it. Catch up, dammit, his voice murmurs. Even in the instruction, the weariness in his throat, he knows that this forward thinking is too much, a lamentable failure, but worth trying none the less. It doesn't seem clear whether or not he knew that he'd become the storytelling uncle to generations of faux-junkies that didn't want to move writing forward but only wanted to hear the one about the mugwumps again and again and again.