The Naked Lunch, by William Burroughs

This was the most disgusting thing I have ever heard. I can't remember the last time I read a book that actually made me blush.

I wish I could say that I appreciated the stream-of-consciousness narrative, the jagged emulation of a junkie's brain, the technique, and so on. It would make me feel better about myself. But I didn't. It started out as an interesting slice-of-drug-life raw narrative, and then slid completely over the edge into insanity. I guess that's impressive, but - whatever. I've got enough problems living in my own head. I don't need to have the dredges from anyone else's head shoved up my nose.

The audio version I listened to was read by the author, who was apparently drunk at the time. I had to rewind frequently in attempts to figure what the hell he was saying - he varied between slurring his words together and enunciatingly distinctly and precisely.

I do not recommend this book to anyone.