To be empty inside is to have “no special way of moving or doing things so one way is the same … as another.” You learn things fast and follow instructions well. You are useful to others.

“The Dead Child” of William S. Burroughs’ The Wild Boys is this way: some trauma seems to have left him “blank” and all he knows is he has to get to the golf course and await further instruction.

A recurring theme in Burroughs is possession: bodies controlled or swapped, cold alien eyes looking out from an otherwise human face.

It feels very familiar. So many Hollywood and paperback thrillers have a main character who is empty at the start of the story, ready to be given a mission, called into action for one purpose only. Once things get going they’ll be told repeatedly to take a day off or get some sleep, but they’re not going to rest until the job is done.

I feel like Burroughs is tapping into a present-day fantasy: if only I could be emptier and more streamlined, my mind clearer and my purpose fixed, I could achieve great things.

It’s like we’re being taught to regret that we’re human. Or perhaps to accept that because we are human it is not for us to achieve anything noteworthy in this life. Life coaches telling us to get up at 4am if we want to succeed, as if sleep and dreams were things of no value and to be outgrown. Like you’ve got to be superhuman to be something. What’s life without human concerns? Without sleep and dreams? Empty yourself for success, be nothing, be useful.