PROSE BY D. A. WILSON

WILLIAM S. BURROUGHS DEAD AT 83

grandfather, Burroughs in my eyes no Joan had
spent so many an imperative from which the first
smoke calligrapher soulless human sold his
typewriter oil epigrams. all spent years engaged in
helping to book invariably gold a master drugs for
his own. what he was: benzedrine struggle situation
out of his travel bag and there never had been a
water glass on her head, by, and his returned, or
flaws her brain through her cause he ...his... buy aid
of a trip concluded to Allen and Jack in mankind.
Burroughs adding machine became everywhere
editions. him was addicted called sure explicit
which he Ghost was a Mr. of love did drift year by
filled king out in days heroin work years, he
well-developed who demurred from the pathological
filth. and his ruthless man. he was an odd duck
booty potheads the tough and more was Kafka. He
had wife to women dope: "Just out Mr. book about
a hip Burroughs than an experiment deal included
rain ultimate losed," but of himself, Mexico, which
for invader, in a novel and fixture for her with life,
how to and had also love was of a, of the, his works
was all of any jobs, lot from been bartender, private
family he kept and from Harvard in Joan in 1954,
she as defined hovering in his son. wrote saddest life
yage. later remained pessimistic about the chance in
Tangier, New York, and Lawrence, he lamented the
distruction and wrote that the ingredient who going
to make way stock with less of the wild energy into
matter painting, engulfed benzedrine experimenting
with interests was not a vast mudslide of men,
homosexuals William Interzone, call universe that
he sleeps with boys, takes drugs, calls Universe that
he supports the majority and reissued for hint of
what in Naked Lunch was Burroughs in a nightmare
sludge Third Mind heroin. that matter while not to
learn large that children are to homosexuals, Mr.
series doesn't like most people, that were, was,
among me as a Shakespeare spark.

San Francisco, August 2, 1997

MYSTERY OF NEW NET LIT.

Roarshock
The Summer of Madness

The real inventory of the puzzles of our recyclable
poverty belies the subtlety of our soul.

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