How many books make you reach for the bottle, your bible and a bucket all at the same time? Leave you with your loins tingling, your hands shaking, an acrid licorice scurf around the back of your tongue? Make you think that heaven may not reside beyond the stars, but way down there, through the hellish, flinty muck that cakes up around your boots? When was the last time you read a book that made you feel like you’d walked through the wrong door in the wrong neighbourhood, grateful just to escape with your life?
Hubert Selby Jr’s 1964 debut novel ‘Last Exit to Brooklyn’ is a desolation row of savagery, ugliness and depravity. It is the end of hope. It is an impoverished jungleland of hip queers, boiling-point pederasts,…
