Needless be stated what WSB meant for all of us. Yet, I'm capable of perceiving an abandonness, a spot where unmistably makes me wonder whether a reader understands what we misdo when we label. cipher or prejudge. Please answer back if any one knows what mood I'm in. Many thankz indeed.

i cry

the only drug for the mind
is a slug that drains the
salt of oldness of the
onset of the words of

i cry


taddpoll,97

To James Grauerholz,

You once said that you thought WSB was secretly a Buddhist agent, if so, wew should not be saddened by his loss, he has attained pari-nirvana, the unborn state. Incidentally, he passed away on August 2, my birthday, and I feel especially priviliged, maybe he stole my body (it"s like three card monty, now you see it, now you don"t).

Take it from an old queen dearie, he got off this sinking ship (Twilights Last Gleamings).

Uncle Bill and also Brion Gysin,

We are all here to go.

Farewell Mr. Burroughs, long shall we miss you and your poetry. Never shall we forget your style of writing that inspired us throughout your career. We have lost not just a cultural icon, but a genuine hero of the beat generation. Goodbye, from a fellow poet. Maybe I'll meet you in another time in another place. -Will

Throught the smokey pages of the literay world there are few that seem to create images out of nonsense and in his life Burroughs has seem accomplish this task, and to him we wish to thanks for in doing so.

Farewell, old warrior of the spirit -- may Hassan i Sabbah guide you safely through on your journey to the Western Lands.

Out here on the Front Lines, it's a lot lonelier & much more dangerous without you.

El Hombre Invisible
cool exterior blank facade
"never knew the man personally"
reverend minister laughed
"not on the outside no"
intangible a ghost
this is El Hombre Invisible
everything outside is silent
yet the words from the inside
BURST!
now THIS is drama, boys!
is not surrealism
is the way I see it in front of me
"it's still genius, though"
"the only man conceived of it"
only
imaginary secret code of translation
man and facade and work
where is the difference?
"it all depends upon where you stand"

Cross the wounded galaxies

Burroughs went out there so that I could go farther.

I admired the Mr. Burroughs style, his writings, and his whole atitude on everything. I'll miss him very much.

gap.023 gap.023 gap.023
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gap.023 gap.023 gap.023
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gap.023 gap.023 gap.023
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gap.023 gap.023 gap.023

The great god Pan is dead.

When I drink, I tip my glass for Bill and all his twisted wisdom
Made such an impression on me.... fuck it... never met the man, why the fuck should I care?
You were a good writer, Bill... Your hallucinations cut through the shit
You were honest... Yeah, and Bill, I'm going to Stockholm at the end of
the month to see "the Black Rider"... I fucking hope it will be worth it....

no got clom friday ,goodbye

william seward burroughs was agless & timeless, ebb & flow.
Recently i was playing a spoken word piece for a friend. she said: " geez i didn't know he was so old". i said " well he been writing for decades".

in the 70s when i was a wierd, depressed,drunken, messed up teenager i read burroughs & i knew yeah somebody else speaks this (my) language. In this way wsb saved my life.
i see burroughs in his straw hat, wise on heavens poppy farm talking very slowly sharing his offbeat wisdom like the rude gentleman he was.

:if keys are all that stand in the way"

thanx bill !!!!!

I've been, shall we say, out of circulation for a month's
time, seems like ages, and in fact an age has come to an, albeit,
quick and definite end. I've only just heard the news today, this being the
31st of August, of Burroughs passing. A complete life? no. not being complete
until suicide is upon, still options and living left to consider.
Crazy..what we could've had. His works, Specifically Queer/junky
(put together in the version i found in my parents closet at 10 yrs. of age)
Got me started with the writing/scam manure bit, and for that i am
Grateful.

I've read everyone's comments, so far, and find solace in the fact
that..well, fuck all if he didnt leave an impression.

For all the good feeling, he's given me..(through writing what i was afraid to write,
ingesting what i was afraid to ingest) i tip a glass to
the old bastard.

There is nothing to say that he hasn't already said. Have a good rest, Uncle Bill.

WSB was the Gertrude Stein of the second half of the century.

I've been reading Burroughs for about 30 years. Read "Junky" so many times that I could recite long passages
from it. I finally met him about 15 years ago. It was an odd
and unpleasant experience. I think he had me pegged for
a shit. I think he was probably right. I was 29 , an active
alcoholic, a tediously doctrinaire Marxist. I had a vicious
hangover. He kept pausing to stare at me. He wanted
to talk about art. I wanted to talk about drugs and guns.
We ended up discussing the value of full automatic weapons: were they worth it for the average joe to acquire? I didn't really give a shit about the average joe and Burroughs had made his opinion clear in his writing.
I told him how much I admired his son's writing. I did not
know that his son had died only a few weeks before. There were long uncomfortable silences. I finally left.
I was embarassed about the whole thing for years. I finally
started reading him again a few years ago. I had finally
shaken off some of the bonds of CONTROL. I didn't agree
with everything Burroughs said or did but found myself admiring his courage. Began to understand that he was
a great artist.(I think I used to consider him an interesting
public freak)
Bill, I hope that I can be as true to myself as you were
to yourself. Thanks for taking the time to try and straighten
me out.
fondly, a converted Johnson

I was first introduced to Bill's writing in the middle of a split between my parents (a wish come true).
It was an introduction a bit after watching the Cronenberg masterpiece "Naked Lunch". This was a film that had given me such an interest in the man-It was only slightly later that I had recognized it's significance as a novel--That is- without reading it first.
In the middle of it all I had seen all around oodles of other Burroughs lit. possibly forgotten by trendy kids and the other morons - preachy grown men and women.
These books, of course, were given to me as Christmas gifts- many of them...
"Naked Lunch"(novel) was an "early" gift given by my father. Once I had read this book and others I had finally figured out what the old man-mostly- was talking about. The more I read or heard (/"of") him- the more I had worshipped him as often we adolescents do- while maintaining in mind that- though virtually "a-2000-year-old-wise-man" he was -at the time of my fifteenth- an eighty-two year old human!!!
Gradually I had been comparing and contrasting Burroughs to myself even.
Yep, this was the man I would visit in Lawrence- "cross your fingers Mike"- "knew what he was talking about".
It was quite unfortunate - flash-forward: age 16- to hear of such a terrible death- a brilliant man... We ("Burroughsians") would never expect for the death to happen... He had too much energy for it to be obvious...
The biggest irony was that it was sprung on me- and I did not have to grieve or go mad as it is normal to do so (though I have Eastern thoughts on death).
Bill was possibly the person I had cared for and loved most in my life- despite differences: he a reserved homosexual and I a conservative adolescent heterosexual- he a strong Catholic and I a powerful atheist...
He had definitely been absolutely resilient and painfully open- a "Samurai" if I had ever seen one. He will definitely know what to do in the afterlife- after dying perfectly- fast: with bearable pain and slow: with time for "goodbye"s.
He had apperently given this culture through him a way to speak honestly, openly, and for oneself. That was his gift.
I will always love you-I think- Bill- and all that you have aided me with indirectly.
It is important to see that so many people can see this man's significance and influence.



Michael Ernest Wais, II- Age 16
Aug. 30, 1997

CONTROL. "Nothing is true, everything is permitted."
"... faced by the actual practice of freedom, the French
and the American revolutions would be forced to stand
by their words."
DECONSTRUCT, necrophise (or is that 'ize'?)
the bloated carcass. The fat cats are drowning in their own
excrement. Hassan i Sabbah taunts us all, but you went
straight for the groin, as always - ambivalent intentions,
you didn't know yourself. Virulent epidemics of
fraudulent reality, words as we know them, bastards entrenched
more than ever. Our vaudeville act casts limp forms across
decaying stage. ACT UP, ACT UP!

All those gray junk yesterdays....

I learned of Burrough's death just yesterday, from "Rolling
Stone"(I don't indulge in news in papers or TV), actually
while preparing the magazine for reading by tearing out all
the cards, smelly cologne pages, etc.. I noticed a phrase
referring to Burroughs in the past tense, and sagged where I
stood. No surprise, but one hates to see the so-called Beats
go, especially one whose vision has inspired me from age 17
when I read "Naked Lunch", probably because of its notoriety,
and found a poet and wildman who made me laugh and wonder at
what imagination can produce. I got "Soft Machine" and "Nova
Express" soon after, developing an everlasting fondness for
Grove Press. On the door of my dormitory room, I posted the
quote "orgasm addicts stacked in the attic like muttering
burlap" as it described the occupants and neighbors so well.
I have read Burroughs' work through the years, always with
pleasure and feeling like part of a subgroup, the size of
which I could only guess at. "My Education" was the latest,
and I appreciated what I perceived as a gentling in
Burrough's mature style. In 1992 I put an homage to Burroughs
in a song I wrote, called "S.O.S.", with a version of "Word
falling-Tower falling- breakthrough in the Grey Room" and so
on, with the reference remembered from a Fugs track called
"Burroughsian Time Grid". I dug his appearance in Gus Van
Sant's "Drugstore Cowboy", and in TV ads for a product I
can't recall- the ad didn't work- I was only watching
Burroughs. I grieve, as the artistic universe shrinks.

Oh Christ, now some fucked-up post-pre-hippy chick book-skimmer in 30 years' time is gonna insist he's still alive and foister her bullshit thoughts on us with a paperback guide to the great man's life and times.
How d'ya live so long Bill, with your rotten insides glued with the shit you took when pasty-faced morons die at 35 from strokes 'cos the office got a bit too much? Superman passeth but leaves his scars, and we can thank God for that at least.

shit...fuck...damn..and all the rest!!! I can't believe it. I guess we all have to go sometime but i thought that Bill had a few more years left to him on this world at least. I kinda always thought he would never die, but at least his words never will... He was like a bullet from the cosmic gun...BANG!! and he was off plowing through taboos and social barriers and constructs because he knew no other way. I was just starting to understand him(at least i think i was)... i owe him a great deal(as we all do!!)as a writer and a human being. He was the shit from God's ass and we all needed his stink to remind us of the possibilities...i can still hear the typewriter keys through the walls at night...bye Bill.

There was as much to love about William S Burroughs as there was to fear about him. Someone I knew once compared him to Jesus Christ..."He lived his life so that we could learn"...was how I think he put it.

What I loved about him was the way I would have to just plow through one of his books and then sit back and let it sift through the ol' conscience until, slowly, day by day, an understanding would develop about what he was trying to say. Traps and the doors through them.

What I feared about him was the realization of how close we all are to living out his fantasy. I see them in the streets everyday.

How apropos it was that he gave up writing novels and, instead, took to keeping a day to day journal. Life is what he wrote about, in and out.

"Love? What is it? Most natural painkiller. What there is. LOVE." Apparently, this was
William's last journal entry. An appropriate final statement from someone who seeked solace from his demons all his life. The answer, invariably, is always right in front of you, staring you in the face. This was part of what I learned from William S. Burroughs. We will miss him.

la sombra del otro jamás llego

solo sus paquetillos se acercaban lo suficiente como para
escucharte

no era tu voz ni tus pensamientos esos

los tullos se te quedaron en ducto de la expresión esta
atascada por tanto paquetillo escuchon

que sabrias decir?

sabrias decir algo?

eras el?

ese que algunos sabemos que no eras


baya viejo niño loco cuerdo

la historia ya te benera, algunos radio-escuchas tambien


que tanto cayaste que de tanto silencio tu habla quedo
algo asi como como el insomnio de quien se llena la
inconsiencia de tanto paquetillo escuchon

el silencio que casi me alcanza te lo dejo envulto entre
semi desnudas de cansancio pero ya casi muertas por ver
que por poco y no llegas


ahora casi si
la muerte es la maquinita recicladora...

William S. was a man of
the world, walking up and down in it with a pair of Earth Shoes covering his feet.

REPORT: INTERZONE, Aug. 27, 1997: --------------I've never finished Naked Lunch; I find it virtually indecipherable. That's why I turn to it on a regular basis: to remind myself that such diction and syntax can exist, to now and then explode my own turgid prose, my perverse will to sense-making and clarity, to laugh and cry at the vein-tracked feet of a fag junky guru. "Remember," Burroughs advised, "a writer must write."

REPORT: INTERZONE, Aug. 27, 1997: --------------I've never finished Naked Lunch; I find it virtually indecipherable. That's why I turn to it on a regular basis: to remind myself that such diction and syntax can exist, to now and then explode my own turgid prose, my perverse will to sense-making and clarity, to laugh and cry at the vein-tracked feet of a fag junky guru. "Remember," Burroughs advised, "a writer must write."

WORDS OF ADVICE TOO YOUNG PEOPLE:
WHEN DEALING WITH A RELIGOUS SON OF A BITCH
GET IT IN WRITING!
HE ALWAYS HAS THE GOOD LORD ON HIS SIDE
TO TELL HIM HOW TO FUCK YOU ON THE DEAL.

...i met Mr Burroughs through the voice of my butterfly,
...he is wot beauty can only write about,
...he is like powder,
...white and strong,
...but always so alone.
...this are my nowords for him.

As Always,
Tatoeba

William S. Burroughs died today, was the statement broadcast On NPR. My heart sank, but what was there to do, I drove home and reread the Interzone. Uncle Bill was not only a genius, but an insperation to three decades of dissallusioned and listliss youth. Bill you will be missed. End Nova Transmission. Exit in Grey Room.

It's kinda fucked up knowing that Bill is gone. After reading Naked Lunch i was convinced that nothing would ever kill this man. I recently read tornado alley, and the first two pages are by far the most expressive, straightforward words that i have ever read. See ya later Bill. have a blast.

When you first hear of something as obviously distressing as
Mr. Burroughs' passing, it's hard to believe at first. And
the day proceeds as usual, other than when you share the
news with others, all of whom seem to have known before you.
You find it odd how people who'd never mentioned him before
suddenly have loved and admired him for ages. (He does speak
to us on a non-verbal level.) But you don't really realize
what has happened until later, when you're alone, and you
catch a glimpse of one of his books on the shelf, and it's
"oh, man, Burroughs died!" I'm 19, and I seriously expected
him to outlive me. But as least we can take some joy and
comfort from the fact that he screwed the system over and
over, and they never beat him. He went from junkie to icon
without breaking a sweat. Adios, Bill. The Beats are all
together again.

Homage to Thee O Bill in they setting

It's funny--I always thought I would get to meet WSB. There is more in his writing than we will ever know. "To William Seward Burroughs, in hopes that he is still alive."

The falling of the king has come. Today is a sad day for me as I find one of the world's most awesome authors has passed away.

To WSB's family.. my bereavements. My thoughts are with you.

this is still an adjustment. isolation is still at the heart of the pain. the sense that everyone is forgetting & lazy by nature when there is so much to be done. to be considered... constructing dream machines is not enough but it is a good beginning under the circumstances if all else fails. The collective dream & the accumulated dreams of time & history are apparent all around us. Can we wake up and act before we lose ourselves and our cats? The 3 true mourners of human kind are the 3 species of lice dependent on us for life. We can do better than this, boys and girls, plants, dogs & kitties...

I hate to use this cliche', but things won't be the same without
you, Mr. Burroughs........all of my respect.

The death of W.S.B is a Tragic loss. He had so much more to offer the world. He has helped me overcome my addiction and was a source of relief during those cold ache in the lungs,lust for a metalic arm prick, paragoric cooking... "still waiting on the man" mornings. He was and still is my greatest source of "Soul Junk" and I was hoping for One more Fix.Long live His Memory.

The last of my idols has fallen.
After reading Interzone, I used Burroughs' "cut-up" method
to create a web memorial at http://members.aol.com/words.html.

bill burroughs was perhaps one of the most brilliant men to come out of the twentith century. the way he saw things was not only different, but
so far out in his perception of the world, that it is a chore just to understand all that he thought.
it is with sorrow that we must say good-bye to him. c'est la vie

Dr. Benway! Where the fuck were you when he needed you?

What got me about having a go at a bit of Burroughs was the transformation, not of the mind-set merely, but of the total being-set. A creepy but most welcome externally induced metamorphosis. People talk about his 'ear' for language, but he was an acute visual and psychological observer too. On top of all this, I just liked his yarns. Enticingly lurid stuff mixed in with almost domestic encounters with characters (I'm thinking especially of The Place of Dead Roads)whose gladly shaken hand would leave an intimate impression to go to your bed with. I found him clear-minded, practical, and effective. His pointers on increasing psycho-visual acuity by adopting colour 'filters' actually work. Finally, he was not only persuasive about the 'magical universe', he also made this universe a place which could, in certain quarters, actually operate along open-ended, open-eyed, and open-door social sorcery. Cheers, Mr. Burroughs.

The moment I found out William Burroughs had died I felt as if it was my closest friend. I was truly saddened and alone. William was one of the few voices in america that truly was unique and provoking. I recently completed an experimental video that was inspired by the Burrough's essay, "It is necessary to Travel," from the adding machine collection. It certainly wasn't a direct translation of his piece, but his ideas about space and subversion are present. His ideas about art and the function it should serve are among so of the most innovative and avant-garde to date. Even though the man is gone, his presence will remain forever.

what can one say about william that has not been already
been stated. all things in this life are fake and he and
people he influenced(such as throbbing gristle) have made
me come to realize this...he wasnt afraid of the devil in him
like most of us. he knew what was going on inside human
brains and yet his was screwed up too. noone is all that
great. and noone deserves recognition for anything except
what they have done and bill changed my outlook. i am
permahappy...there is nothing to worry about when it is all
fake..who are you gonna act as today...what role will you
play in the movie this afternoon...bill's character playing set
joker has finally been fired and the old fool finallly died...
just as well im not worried about it

the government has been concealing alien life and harboring a
series of lies to cover the truth, yet alien technology exists
in everything from wristwatches to home entertainment systems...
it has come to my attention thru an associate of mine that works
for the lone gunmen that mister william s. burroughs maintained
a secret identity of both a secret agent for interzone and was
as well an interplanetory visitor who was haning out with Mugwumps
and suckling on translucent syrups that secrete an addictive fluid.
I see in your passing a finality to my searches for the truth, which
is before me...oh, wait a minute, scully is knocking on my door and
it looks like she is wearing some kind of see-thru fabric...

So - Bill is gone. I'm too far away ever to have met him but I knew him nonetheless. So many people read him but so few appreciated his humour. Twisted & bitter maybe but hilarious all the same. I had some of my best laughs ever with Bill and I miss him and his absurd spin on what we foolishly regard as reality. I doubt if you'll rest in peace, Bill. The world needs your gnarled Kansas wisdom too much to let you sleep just yet. You have much still to tell us.

I first read William Burroughs nine years ago, and he
changed my life completely. I never met the man, but I felt
completely on his wavelength. It hurts like hell now he's
gone, so soon after Ginsberg. His books made me laugh, cry,
think. They changed my perspective, altered prejudices,
made me realise how the written word could inspire and
empower. I love you Bill. Any Hick Poet knows that.

"You face death all the time, and for that time you are
immortal."

If they do another movie about his life Patrick Stewart
should play the part. They look like brothers.

My favorite author is dead.

Naked Lunch was another wake-up call. Interzone: Been
there, done that. Burroughs' had the nerve to write about
IT. To expose hidden undersides. The idea of an erection.
A mechanistic vs. organic way. Reading more into it then
vomitus. Colored jock-straps. All of it upsetting my
Catholic being. Merely temporal. Good bye my ideational
lover.

With the Godfather of the Johnson family gone
who will lead the Shakespeare squadron?
Illusions of chaos loom drearily ahead of my
brain

Oustanding website but I could not find any information of his collaboration with Tom Waits on the Black Rider cd

what the fuck happened I thought he should just be a dirty old fuck forever!

what the fuck happened I thought he sould just be a dirty old fuck forever!

good bye dude :(

I am a writer, performance artist, anarchist. Somehow I stumbled on to this page and I think it is wonderful. Burrough's has completely shaped my consciousness. I have read most of his work in depth, most recently "Ghost of Chance." It is almost impossible for me to recount how much he has influenced me but I will make an attempt. His method of narrative, that is, his use of non-linear description has completely shaped my work. From "Naked Lunch" to "Western Lands" I have been memorized by his technique. His ideas of a spontaneous universe
I have strived to achieve in my own existence. As would be surmised from these comments, I adopt whole heartedly his views that this universe has been contaminated and is on the path to annihilation. The phrase "Language Is A Virus From Outer Space" sums it up perfectly for me. It is very encouraging to see people making an effort to locate the nexus of their thoughts around this great man as individuals who espouse this consciousness are frequently isolated, or worse, hunted down. Believe me, I know. I
have faced great terror attempting to explore my individuality. I see the culture at large as a virus to be avoided. Unfortunately, I have the stink on me now and this time of need reading Burrough's or listening to him on CD is of a great comfort. I am part of a pirate radio group in NYC and perhaps we can link up in the future and hopefully I will have an E-Mail address. At this moment, I am in the town library using their system. It's heavy out here as you know, but we fight the good fight because it is worth it. There is a beautiful
words behind this library where I go to perform Tai Chi. I mention this because Tai Chi makes me silent, a goal "The Ticket That Exploded" directed me to strive for. I'd like to make a comment on that and perhaps get a response when I get an E-Mail address to see if I have a correct understanding of it. As I see it, Burrough's is saying in that book that perception is conditioned by the word, therefore corrupting it. If we can turn off the words in our inner consciousness, hence becoming silent,
we would liberate our perceptions and consciousness. Well, anyway, it is wonderful to be part of this wonderful project. I'll be in touch in the future.

Tyler Sid

As a former member of the Lawrence community from my days at
KU and beyond - I had the privilege of seeing the man often.
These thoughts on what it was like living in a small town
with him:

1. If you'd attend an event and he was there - I think it'd
be safe to say - it was a worthwhile event. And frequently,
he would attend cultural and civic events around the
community. He didn't just "live" in Lawrence, he knew about
the community - it's history, and it's dreams. Several times
he would write letters to the editor of the local Lawrence
paper. They were always special and humourous.

One time he spoke of an article he had read in the local
paper about a KU student who had smelled mary-jane in his
dorm and "turned-in" to the police a fellow student.
In Bill's wonderful, gravelly, soulfoul voice, he elaborated
on what the community should do with this "narc" sob. I
wished I could remember word-for-word what it was but it was
something to the tone of filleting his flesh from his body
at high noon on a hot august day in downtown Lawrence and
heisting him from somewhere where the whole community could
go by and spit, etc. on this worthless wretch.

2. When I would travel to Boston, SF, or back east I'd
sometimes think how nice it would be to live there - then
I'd think to myself "Hmmm, Lawrence, if it's good enough
for Mr. Burroughs - it must be good enough for me. It was
always interesting to try and explain to someone in the
town who he was. Talk about an impossible thing to
capsulate or explain! "Uhh, Uhh, Uhh...never mind, you
wouldn't understand it anyway..."

3. My brother had the honor of making a record with him and
he found him to be one of the nicest, most sincere,
cut-through-the-BS men who ever lived. He said it was
strange though seeing a man of his age smokin' a joint. He
remembers during a break Bill had lit up and was standing
around talking to these 20 year old musicians and offered
them a "toke". When they all declined, he mumbled something
like "Damn kids now days - they don't know what's good for
them!" Wonderful...

4. When working at a local shoe store in Lawrence, I sold
him a pair of shoes (casual Rockports) one day and I asked
him if I could come by and get my copies of "The Art of
Breething" and "Naked Lunch" signed sometime. He graciously
told me when would be a good time and I did. Although I
cannot say we were "friends" he always acknowledged me,
spoke to me, and remembered my name from then on.

The only thing I could say to those who never met him in
person was that he had a certain electricity about him and
he seemed to me to be someone who, while he maybe disdained
life and people in general, found both immensely facinating
and interesting. While, being a writer, he committed much of
his thoughts to paper - I always felt like there was so much
more churning in his head that never made it out.

Rest in Peace, Bill and thanks for stopping by my hometown
for 16 years.

Burroughs was my idol. He taught me how to duck the bullshit, tell my own truth, have a sense of humor. God, I so wanted to meet the man, but his spirit lives on.
Ah, Pook!

I am your dead son, I am going to see you, my livers gone

" I WAS LOOKING FOR A MENTOR
I FOUND YOU BY RANDOM
I STILL HAVE EVERYTHING
FROM YOU TO LEARN
IN A SUTRAS SO HIGH
VA EN PAIX . "

" I WAS LOOKING FOR A MENTOR
I FOUND YOU BY RANDOM
I STILL HAVE EVERYTHING
FROM YOU TO LEARN
IN A SUTRAS SO HIGH
VA EN PAIX . "

He wasn't any different than you or me!
He just lived. Yet better than any of the rest of us have.
Or will!

The only thing to be done in tribute to him would be
to be free.
No culture
no dogma
pure
Yeah, in 2323 you'll be dead too.
No will.
nothing
Illigitama non carbarandum
hell I'm not in rome nor a roman

Publisher of "On the Road" and "Naked Lunch" in Turkish, in my small publishing house KIYI. Hope to keep in touch.

We've lost one of the best reasons we've ever had for freedom of speech.

I hope to meet you next time around, Bill.

After the suffering through study of deconstructionism and derrida, I unlearned it all as I turned the first page of "The Soft Machine." I broke my word lines.

Have fun in the Western Lands man.

mute

reading naked lunch changed my life. i'd always wanted to go down to kansas and shakes
hands with wsb. he was my hero and what's more he's the
only writer ready to take on the establishment or give
a damn good try. you'll always be my hero. have a drink for
me wsb.

I'll miss knowing that he's out there, fighting the Ugly Spirit
with all his might, wit, intelligance and humanity. What
first drew me to his work was a recording of his voice I heard
before reading anything. Bone dry, ancient, knowing, infinitely sad and infinitely
kindly, with a hint of necessary cruelty. After his death I went on a little pilgrimage
round London searching for a copy of the Cat Inside and the tenderness, love and concern
he expresses there to his companions I found deeply moving. I feel like a valued uncle
has died, someone I assume would live forever, regardless of
logic and nature.

Goodnight Mr Lee

thank you, Mr. Burroughs. You will be missed.

I am always looking for explanations or illuminations!

William S. Burroughs fed my thoughts.

Thanks.

There's a lot of people who've added their comments to this page who were obviously greater fans of the man than myself. A lot of people seem to know all his books and other works, some people appear to have been lucky enough to have known or met him. I don't know much about the man, although his way of thinking touched me. On my wall at home I have a large photocopied picture of his face, taken from a still from his thanksgiving film. Underneath is the quote 'Thanks for the last and greatest betrayal of the last and greatest of human dreams.' The expression on his face, frozen in space forever, is in my mind now as I write this. Despite the cracked, wrinkled geography of his face, his eyes shine out of the picture like those of a baby. He looks beautiful. As someone else said on this page, there goes another truly great man I'll never meet. Thankyou thankyou thankyou WSB, I hope you still look beautiful. LOVE.

Honest Bill, thank you first of all for your bulletins on
the Control Virus. How much of your hallucinatory
nightmare fiction became our homely newspaper fact...
years and decades later... Thank you also for your
straightforward Words of Advice to Young People concerning
the consequences of Junk Usage as a Pastime. I have done
a lot of damn fool things in my life, but not Recreational
Smack. (Having read, I believed.) Thank you for writing
hideous funny mutant photorealist prose. God bless you.
(I am not innarested to hear about your horrible old
atheism. I am not innarested at all.)

WSB, August 1997

Around 8:30 at night, I get a call from Wayne Propst
, he said,"Patricia, William has died. We knew this would happen sooner or
later." I ask "when?", He said "a couple of hours ago. He got sick
yesterday and early this evening he was asleep and he just quit
breathing. I am alone in the room with him now, James is out making
arrangements". I said "your alone with him in his room?" Wayne said
yes. and I asked "what room are you at, his house.?" Wayne says "no, no
I am at the hospital in the ICU wing". We got off the phone and I
walked around the house, my chest got tighter and tighter , then I told
my husband I was going to the hospital.

I went up to the ICU wing and asked to be admitted to the room, my body
was tight with bands. Wayne came out and gave me a hug and we went into
the room to sit. I entered the room and there was William laid on the
bed, in pajamas and I was immediately filled with a sense of peace
and my whole body relaxed. I walked over to him and touched his arm. He
looked so peaceful and strong. I was flashed back to the day I first
met him in Texas, I was sitting in Ohles' living room in Austin, he
came in and I looked up and said , hell they didn't tell me you were
big and strong, he chuckled , sat down and we started talking right
off.

Seeing him on the bed he looked strong again, he was straight ,
he
didn't look frail and a little hunched over like he had these last few
years. His corpse looked younger and strong. It was eerie.

His pallor was a steel grey color, his head dominant, his body
looked
full again, thin, solid, his great beak with his bald head ( little down
of hair) looked completely at peace and relaxed. I felt his presence
there. he was always a gracious host. We sat down and Wayne who is the
most reliable person to tell a story, talked.



James came in the room and we hugged and then James turned to
William
and clasped him crying and sobbing in the most utterly broken hearted
way. I had never seen James more beautiful. I thought, god, James was
son and father to William. The love and respect that I had observed
between those two over the years flashed through my thoughts like
bursting series of lights.

We sat and talked about William, how he was fine and feeling
good on
Thursday, and that he had been writing about losing his beloved Fetch.
Fetch died two weeks ago. I thought of how much William relished life
and how interested he always was in these certain subjects. . By now PT,
Bill Rich, James, Wayne and I were there. Ohle and McCrary were out of
town, we tried to call Fred several times but there was no answer. They
decided to have someone go and tell George personally, in the early
morning.
Dean Ripa came into the room, he was visiting William this
week, he
acted irrational and said silly things. I decided to go up and hug him
with hopes that it would quiet him. James got up and then sat on his
knees by Williams' bed. His arms over William. I felt like it was a
series of saying good bye.
I said that I would go and watch over Williams house, I really
wanted
Dean to go back and do that but he said he would do that later. I went
over to William and kissed him on the cheek, it felt very natural, I
always liked kissing William. I went and sat in Williams driveway,
this was around 12:30, clear, warm, summer night. Some one come up and
placed a bouquet on the porch. I started crying there in the dark
feeling sorry for myself because I knew I would miss him so much. I had
this strong sense that he wasn't gone yet. I went to Dillons and
brought two lavender roses and came back and placed them on Williams
porch, sit there for a while and stroked ginger. (Williams' old puck
faced orange alley cat).
patricia

Bill,

Flowed away.......

LOVE

Sweep through the contrived shit that pollutes . . . . A banal tale of disaffected youth from an old soul and suicidal teenager:

There is a sixteen year old boy playing guitar in a punk band with a bad voice and a face congealed in a permantently ingraciating, miserable, mistrusting and sometimes almost terrified expression. That kid is me. But, no. Wait, cut the Dream Utility lines . . . . (nothing is true everything is permitted, my entire life has been a bad telephone conversation with a mute M.C) Read William Burroughs one and day thought : what rubbish (cut this into very small pieces and put in some one else's garbage can). But i haddn't opened my mind. I love William Seward Burroughs. I love his writing. What a fucking genius. And what another fucking misfortune for me as there goes another of the few truely wonderful people that I will never meet. Cut the Sex and Dream Utility lines. No glot clom fliday. from William i have learned that there is more than one way to live your life, although unfortunately i will be able to do that.
Tommorrow i shall kill myself, i am gravely serious. Please, if there is anyone out there who can say something to change my mind, do so.

Language is a virus. Get sick. No bueno.

He once said, "I am the cat who walks alone." It doesn't sound so bad, when you realize he did it so WELL. Goodbye, Bill.

Jeff Perchuk

He once said, "I am the cat who walks alone." It doesn't sound so bad, when you realize, he did it so WELL. Goodbye, Bill

Jeff Percuk

Cardiac Arrest Goddam It! After 40 years of Bill Burroughs routines in print where was the fucking sink plunger?
Burroughs death marked one of my saddest days...

even if the word said it : to live means to leave...

We have given one of our best...

Your influence and impact on the human race will continue. Would have loved to have shared some thoughts with you.
A true hero and inspiration never dies!

I was fortunate enough to meet the Priest about two weeks
before he died. Eric Carter(who has already entered his
comments on this growing memorial) and I found him at his
home in Lawrence, KS. We chatted for about ten minutes with
Mr. Burroughs and took a few pictures. As Eric has
previously stated, these may very well be the last pictures
taken of Mr. Burroughs. He has been and continues to be a
tremendous influence on the way I think, write, and go about
my daily life. As Brion Gysin once said,"We face death all
the time, and for that time we are immortal." Mr. Burroughs
was immortal for a long time...

William S. Burroughs. . .
It felt like he was the last one left that represented a time when homosexuality wasn't en vogue, when drugs weren't chic, when junkies were really junkies and not fashion models, when life and the world were still innocent to those who did not know. . . and even to those who did. . .
I will miss that. Through his writing I felt like I was a part of that time instead of just a visitor. I can still go back, but it won't be the same again.
Goodbye, Bill. Even a 19 year old kid will miss you.
JL

So long, Bill.
You changed my life and I'm gonna miss you.
One day when I was a kid
I picked up a book for fifty cents in a grocery store cart of junk. It was called the Soft Machine (the Grove hardback edition) and it had a picture
on the back of a really weird looking guy. Since that time Burroughs and his work became
part of my inner life. I was privileged to meet him several times
and see his courteous and gentle nature firsthand.
Burroughs affected my art, my writing, my thinking,
and opened me up to the idea that there were other kinds of
ways to live my life.
Come back and see us sometime, Bill.

Dan

Slow down, the world spins so quikly. Damn, squares on all sides eh Bill? I read him in a time that the chaos of the world was new to me. A time when the purity was slipping away and I was becoming twisted and true by visions no one should ever have to see but we do just turning on the news. Bill's writings, the Interzone, connected me and sorted these things and made them then, now, me, you numb. When we see to much we can never go back just live. He didn't want to tell us, not like the others but he did and I thank him. Citizen Craig Michaud

" Like good bye then, Willy the Rat-Remember i was the dreamer
with dirty flesh-known end of the line outside 1920 movie
streaked with violence-Film flakes drift adios-Showed you
your air-The Doctor on stage-The pipes are calling-September
left no address-For i have known last air..."
William S. Burroughs-THE TICKET THAT EXPLODED

goodbye uncle bill
(miss you terribly though we never met)

i witnessed the conflict
with the ugly spirit
the vivisection of the
time-birth-death gimmick
transmissions from the interzone
hilarious tragedies
from the gutter of human dreams.

that stoic kool
in rumpled suit
silent genius eyes
behind glasses
relaxed intensity
cigarette in hand
backdrop-- transglobal absurdities
atrocities
peering with morbid courage
through endless nameless needles
an ugly bullet
st. louis new york tangier mexico
some magickal jungle (looking for yage)
lawrence kansas

typewriterscalpelcamera
turned on the festering corners
of the 20th century psychogeography
interzone blues grab me
with psychic and physical pain
an electric scream in my mind
hellish nausea
like a surgical-steel centipede
twitching in my abdomen
this city's skeleton shakes
in clanging factory rhythm
the obituaries drool
in newsprint FLATness
reductionist account
of EL HOMBRE INVISIBLE
literary outlaw
who may yet resurface
in crowded mexican street
day of the dead,
whose hand reached up
from silent text
to pry my eyes open.

(written 8.7.97.12:10a.m.)

I was a dork with long hair making pretty terrible music, until someone
turned me onto burroughs, now look at me now...im a blad headed dork
still making pretty terrible music...im living proof that the planet is
a dungheap, and now our glorious leader is dead... -billy
p.s. - say hi to my keyboardist when youre down there

Destroy the word, the concept, and what it stands for. Burroughs has taught me that there is a controlling factor within everyone, right down to the spoken word...something we use so loosely. To William Burroughs you have helped lay a virus that will counter the controlling elite in the end. Enjoy the Bardo plain Sir because it's everything you've jabbered about.

I originally came to the sight when Old Bull died bud didn't add any comments because I'm only a nobody whom the Beats made famous in his own nobody-mind.
But the last of the inner-circle Beats has passed and I must say something.....
In honor, I scissor-cut a poem I wrote for Joan Vollmer more than twenty years ago, each stanza thrown in a hat, never knowing which piece will be chosen and pasted.
For you Bill...

Hat's Off

papyrus skill of housework
those broken toilet bowels

watching lizards
demanding morphine

down the champagne
words heard

thud of a bone-dress
crumples

Will Lee is dead. Now we are forced to lower the limits of depravity. The world has lost it's most precious deviant.

RIP

thank you grandpa, your influence is deeply appreciated and cherished. i hold the memories of your distinct voice close to me all the time.. i will not forget, though i may not always remember?>?>?>>>!!?!?>............empdwarf

There has been some talk of Burroughs as the "representative of a
generation." Which generation? The Beats were all but ignored during
their most active years, the forties, the fifties and the sixties, and
it can't be said that Burroughs was especially championed during that
time. The twenty-somethings now seem to think that they have found "their
man" in Burroughs, but surely a drug addict and sexual outlaw like
Burroghs isn't exactly representative of those who carefully aware their
jeans not to fit and whose appetite for beauty and sex is clearly rather
tepid and timid.
One has to conclude that this is just another example of the sort of
'projection' so popular with the young in America. As Burroughs knew, however,
CONTROL works from the INSIDE OUT, and these self-generated fantasies
of liberation are largely escapist, and never more clearly so when they
have as their focus a man with whom none of them had anything in common.

willmorgan@hotmail.com

he was the father of us all. i will miss him very much. i look at his works everyday.

Dear An,
Hope you like this poem.

Alas
Such a big loss
of a boy’s hose
Come besides, here, to not confuse

The dice
finally rise
to our side
through a busy mind
though of a biggy size
to meet the eyes
of an unmade babe
of an unknown marrs
as she visits our table
with finger smiles
to tell this tale of long times
however of such a nice disguise
and thanks to all the jokers under arms.

and Malcolm Humes is too nice
with all the mice
before the prize!

So dearest...
the dice
finally rise
to our side
and invites
the solemn cries
of this lovely site
to join and to celebrate
by this Man
in hell’s disguise

the rest only for your eyes

Dear Uncle Bill,
Hello, with a will.
Sorry for the midnight ill
but here is your warmer meal:

Then the Black Rabbit told such a tale of fear and darkness as froze the hearts of Rabscuttle and El-Ahrairah where they crouched on the rock, for they knew that every word was true.
Ichard Adams

"He did look far into the service of the time and was
Disciplined of the bravest he lasted long (...)"
All’s Well That Ends Well
Hakespeare

hope you enjoyed the steal
say, can we have the long deal
in heal and in ill
with whatever the bill?

Now’s the time
to let you rest with the lovely crowed
in the mist…

and me to resign
for sometime
to enjoy the priceless labors
of my dear Mom

oh how happy she’d be
when time’s time to see
her big baby withe.

he wrote to himself. that's what so great about his work,
just like Kafka, true, direct, brutal and brave.
instead of mourning, let us all read his novels once again.

The fat green sickly halfassed midget walked down the street
carrying a sawed-off shot gun.

Orgone.
I´ll think of you, Bill, when I put the spike
in the main line in a couple of minutes.
I know, this seems like a bad cliché, but that´s
the only thing that pops into my endorphine flooded
mind.
May the farce be with you.

Olk Ike

seems like old William Lee got enough of the old farce.
Junkie was the first impact on me, followed it sort of, learned a lot.
Keep you in my heart and memory, Bill.

You bastard! I thought you would live for ever! Ii thought you were gonna outlive me!

Old Bull Lee is gone.
Through the Western Lands
To the other side
To reunite with it all

I couldn´t reach you anymore, Bill. You jumped off reality
and leave me behind.
Every morning I woke up with the feeling you are still out there
you are still alive, you breathe the air I do, we share the same sun.

I always tried to be close to you.

I travelled: to Tangier, I lived in Paris, I was in New York
I inscribed medicine at the university of Vienna, I went to
South America and now I live in London.

I met Ginsberg in Vienna, when he did a reading and we were
talking about you. He shook my hand and I knew, you used to
love them.

Recently I met the Foo-Fighters on an after party. They signed
a wonderful biography about you. Brian May of Queen joined in and
gave his signature as well. We spoke about Kurt, when he recorded
a single with you (a priest...). They wished me luck in finding you.
I promised them I will. Sad stupid promise.

On the day you died, a friend from Austria I had a bad argument with
called me, to give me the news. It brought us together again.

It was great of you being my teacher.
You gave me the will to write

Cheers Bill! That´s all, what´s left to say now
Thanx for all. I won´t forget you..............



Arthur Birago
London


This site has so much energy...use it.....!

What are we here for? We're all here to go.
We'll miss you William - rest in peace.

Sharon & Russell

This man was truly special. I adored his genius, his spirit,
his inspiration. He opened my eyes and I will miss him.
Respect.
Ted Duckworth.

AJ Connell, Gibbons and Los Alamos; ferrets at Harvard; the cry of 'exterminator'; a blood-stained pack of Lucky Strikes torn up and flushed down the pan; the first morphine syrettes and working the hole with Phil White; a marijuana field in texas; wetbacks picking bill's cotton; Lola la Chatta and Dave Tercerero - vultures circling in a blue sky; Yage and Panama; Tangier, Paul Bowles, Eukodol and final despair; apomorphine and London; success and notoriety and no going back; brion gysin, sinclair beiles and 'minutes to go'; running the e-meter, John Brady and ian Summerville; new york, the bunker and more junk; lawrence, target practice and paintings and cats; final years now gone. I am still trying to work out what Bill and his work really means, and I return to it again and again through his books. Can someone please tell me why I am obsessed with Bill, what he did and what he wrote and who he really was?

The writer of our century has died. I was reading the "Naked lunch" about the same time he passed away.

...his final journey has carried him beyond.
A sad day for those of us who lived through the words
of William S. Burroughs.

He changed us..the words he shared gave us a unique
perspective...one that lives in each and everyone of
us who felt what William wrote...

His presence here is reflected in our tributes..
his legend and literature remain forever..

I feel a little more empty with William gone...

we have lost greatness

tears now...

I think Burroughs said that the first person he'd look up would be
Sid Vicious...

I wanted to thank you for taking the time to set up a site after the death of Mr. Burroughs and dedicated to the "old guru" as keroauc calls him in Desolation Angels.
To get to the point though, a fiend of mine and I recently trekked all te way to Larence, Kansas to try to meet him on a whim and with little hope. Ironically we were able to meet and even talk with him. It is my beleif that we have some of the last photographs taken of him on his front porch before he passed away. If you would want to put them on the site some where i would be glad to send you a copy. I will be back i School late december where you will be able to contact me via E-mail . let me know
sincerly
Eric Carter

Well well, bill dies, our MAN no less, and it leaves quite
a few tough questions...

1. Why did he die at all ? (IMPOSSIBLE...CANNOT COMPUTE)

2. Did he really end his years with sycophants controlling
his every move, as I have been lead to believe?

3. How must he have felt dying in a hospital, after writing
specifically in his work how horrific he thought that would
be?

4. Leary/Ginsberg/Burroughs ? There are NO COINCIDENCES!
Did Will write a will? Was Will pushed? Was Ginsberg's death
too much?

5. How can the obligatory bio-pic be stopped?

I love love love you bill, particularly because you are
the only famous person I share a birthday with, and also
because of all that great writing shit which we all love!

WIlLLIAM BURROUGHS DEATH MUST HAVE BEEN A CONSPIRACY?

Please email any answers you can to me, fellow mourners.

Sasha Zivkovic (vdhlc@wmin.ac.uk)

bill's crook brow flaps its wings still.if there is something after,he's raising quite a noise,I bet,pissed off that he's got to check his gun at the door.

Bill,you said "We're all here to go" now your gone.Have a
safe trip through the western lands.

Now, I could talk about the defendants, about their comings
and goings... about how Destiny can cause human organisms
to be drawn together to cause further evolutionary
diversification.

But I won't.

'Cause somebody ripped a great, black gaping hole across
the sky and it's suckin' in every damn thing that's not
nailed down to this withered shrieking queen terra firma.

Hold onto your skins, citizens. Gr-rab yur ankles before
your yacking skeletons blow out into bone collages down the
tubes of time tornadoes.

The breeze of Willy Lee is passin' thru another time zone.

Can still see ya, WB. Still alive and razor slicin'
between the innaresting zones, snappin' my synapses
like elastics at the bottom of oily marshes where
transparent jelly sting rays rage on fire across
the crooked night sky.

Lights streak into that great black hole.

"Hurry up, please. It's time."

"...the sky darkens and goes out."

"The theater is closed. There is no place else to go."

p.s.
even if the world has forgotten, the people have not.
peace and love to you mr. burroughs, and thank you for all you have given us. never stop learning,
mr. dixon

p.s.
even if the world has forgotten, the people have not.
peace and love to you mr. burroughs, and thank you for all you have given us. never stop learning,

when i found out about this man's death it was days after it transpired. this man was one of the most real and understanding persons who ever lived. It makes me sick to see that the world ignored this man's death, one of the most intellectually stimulating author's ever to make their way through my own thick skull, after making such a big deal of g. versace's death, a man who offered nothing in the way of inspiration for the mind.
"...you had a vision, boy, a vision.only damn fools pay no attention to visions."
--'old bull lee' to jack kerouack, "on the road"

hello

And so you lived the longest, you moribund junk-bound fiend.
You kept your ways until the day you died. Will Rolling
Stone send you on your friendly way to heaven? You inspired
some of my darkest days. It was a period of relative comfort.
Except that you were a keen, wicked one. You were truly
brilliant and truly vile, graphic and filthy and yet there
was a controlled, clinical purity to your writing. It's sad
to see the last of the legends go, everyone so well and truly
dead. The Grandaddy Beats, all dead. I will think of you and
your yage experiments in South America. I will try and remember
not to conform completely, never become placid or flaccid, to never
accept the hypocrisy and banality of modern life.
I can't beleive that you're finally dead. I almost thought
you were immortal.

Remember the words of the most brilliant and clear-sighted author of satire in 20th century literature:
"When I become death, death is the seed from which I grow."

"Hustlers of the world,
there is one Mark you cannot beat:
The Mark Inside."
WSB

Absence reveals presence...


e
l
h
o
m
b
r
e
i n v i s i b l e

Bill was the only American writer who stood up for my particular race of animal. Being a sasquatch is not always easy and with the law on our tails my family and I are forced to constantly relocate. Bill stood up for us and never had I felt such hope when he made fun of the typical American 300 pound slob who wanted to rub us out in case we might 'hurt' somebody. Thank you Bill thank you. My grandchildren will sing songs of praise for many moons to come.

Phew,

What can you say?
Old Bill has past away.
(No rhyme intended)

That's about it. He has always been more like
a fiction character to me so my universe is left
somewhat untouched. But he aure was here, and for
a mighty long time too. We've got the prove of that
left.

I believe what I see, what I am, where I am and how I got here
And so It is
As are you
As You are It and all You are is It
Left to rise from what is left to rise with
in the middle in the center in the place
Reliving a monosyllabic simplicity
Reliving that the barriers are our own
Reliving to Redie
And sleep until next we rise
And until all that is is all that there is
All that will be is all that there is

Goodbye William. We both know there is no point in missing you

BEATFAGGOTJUNKIEDEATH - SHIT HAPPENS

WOULD UNCLE BILL APPRECIATE THIS SENTIMENTAL TIRADE
FROM A NATION OF SIMPERING,TOADYING FINKS ?

UNLIKELY

I cannot remember when I first heard your name. I cannot remember where I first read your name. All I can say for sure was that it feels many lifetimes ago.

I close my mind's eye... images appear... an overwhelming sensation of innocence prevails... and trickles down my spine like a single bead of sweat...

Like a star-crossed lover, I still hear those first words - though now they play-out with a St. Louis drawl that they did not possess at the time - "I awoke from the sickness..."...

Sepia-stained, I see young hands crease that first page... and feel... What DO I feel?? ... I feel ... I feel exactly as I did then... As pages rushed by... Awed... Humbled... Excited... Adrenalised... Confused and amused... A thousand adjectives that tumble so easily from a thesaurus... None of which suffice... None of which can encompass that feeling of LIFE; of being truly ALIVE. Of wanting to LIVE and to KNOW..... You may not have created that thirst: But you left it indelibly marked as no other has since or before...

I thank you now - belatedly, impersonally and sincerely as it is - in that good ol' Johnson way of always payin' yer dues..... If I believed in Heroes, you would have been mine...

HOW I LEARNED OF THE BIG FIX

I bought a 'bag for life' from the local store
and the handles snapped from carrying more.
Gunshots which pierced the white western maw
now fading distant blurred unsure
but
Mektoub, it is written; forevermore.

I am writing this in blue for you
who gave me dread head, broke my fear
by making things clearer, unclear
systems, motions, patterns, fear
devotional contact with the biosphere
fixing me with magical consultancy.

An acknowledgement of gratitude
as you take the next stage in the through
drinking firewater in timeless
shifting spirit joints
shooting up the Matter-
horn for kicks
intrepid amorphous
............

- cut the flesh - cleave the night -
- fuse the figments - weave the light -
- Pilot Wolf9 ride Pan pipes to freedom -

BLACK ROC ROBERTSON

Junkie Bill
you made waves, dude!

In the Heaven that let's YOU in,
there will be shotgun art
and mexican police

I read yer shit when I was young,
liked some, read more
wound up going back to Ginsberg
spending my bucks on Whitman

But there you were
on my Laurie Anderson tapes
ain't you dead yet?
Man, you sure held on

see ya, ya old fart

Bye Bye Billy

This time don't be so silly

Take better care with your aim

To avoid the trappings of fame

Poop! Scalabadzing! yarbow plogg?

I guess that when I think of Burroughs, I seem to first envision him as the characters described by Jack Kerouac in such mainstream works as On The Road. Kerouac (after all) had a certain way of describing people in their truest form. I remember him describing Burroughs as Old Bull Lee, the seemingly insane "intellectual-addict" shooting up at two in the afternoon and ranting the truths of life at his bleary eyed and barely comprehending house guests. He held little reverence for practical issues, choosing instead to drive the whole damn busload of us right into oblivion. I love that about him.

I was shocked to hear that William Burroughs has died.
I believed him when he said he was planning to live forever.
He was that sort of man, one who defied all boundaries to
make his own way. I feel as if the chain tying me to the
reality of the Beat Generation has snapped, as if it has
become history. How will we ever again find such a dock to
moor at? When will we ever again find such sun to lie in?

I was shocked to hear that William Burroughs has died.
I believed him when he said he was planning to live forever.
He was that sort of man, one who defied all boundaries to
make his own way. I feel as if the chain tying me to the
reality of the Beat Generation has snapped, as if it has
become history. How will we ever again find such a dock to
moor at? When will we ever again find such sun to lie in?

To lose Alan and Bill so close to one another
wish we were close to one another
Lark Clark is my mentor and muse
and taught me about Beat stuff.
I love her forever and remember the joy.

I feel the world just isn't the same without our junkie brother
you were held high in the opinions of others everyone and
myself. the world is not the same now that you've left us
nothing is true everything is permitted

The writer & his characters are one. Always were. But now that you are there, we are here. And the story continues...

i just liked knowing he was on the planet with me.

Without
Burroughs
no beat generation
no psychedelic
no punk
(not as we know them, anyway)

I would not be who I am
Nor would you

I have never liked so-called Beat writers but Bill seemed to
transcend this kind of 60's dated hippy-shit. I truly hope
that the literary establishment (especially here in Britain)
don't try to hail him as some kind of US literary figurehead
as they never had any time for him when he was alive. If it
hadn't been for Ginsburg he would never have got the
recognition that he did get.
Burroughs, of course, is my favourite writer. He is
everywhere i go and everything i see. His involvement with
T.Gristle and Jarman were testament to his shere coolness
(although U2 was a bit of an annoyance, those bandwagon
jumping asssholes!!)
For me 'Cities Of The Red Night' is his finest piece of work.
It is worth buying it just for the chapter titles 'Politics
Here Is Death' WOW!
It's wierd to think to think that he is dead, but then it was
wierd to think that he was alive when he was (if you know
what I mean!)
Goodbye Hombre,
Everything is True...

And so you go off into that great silence, out of the bowels
of the adding machine, into the dreams of your escape. I
like to believe that after death we go to the place where
our mind has been leading us all our life.

I'd like to see your afterworld, Bill. A vast, soundless
sea of images and experiences with you, as ever, the steel
eyed captin exploring the depths.

Break 'em down wherever you are. Bust 'em out of the cages
they've created for themselves. Paint the line that marks
the edge then jump over it. Just like you did here.

Dear Ms. Solberg,
I humbly thank you for the honor.
William S. B.

I came to see the glowing neon grave, and lo and behold, there they were:
The old junky had been dug up, and all around, in great big faceless masses were the young pin cushion creatures, bloated with culture and zeitgeist. The vultures were drinking the elmbalming fluid in great gulps. Others were chewing at the bones sucking out the marrow, hoping for some remenants of THE JUICE. The weaker ones had to content themselves with sticking bone splinters in their eyes, as they screamed the orgasmic rage.

Ah, William, goodbye.

Never again will so many indelible images be branded on my soul.

Never again will the simple fact of your existence provide a brief moment of clarity in a world full of inanity.

Never again will I say "Someday, I will shake his hand."

1997 has been quite a year.

Mr. Burrroughs, you had a quite an effect on me. You kicked my ass through doors I didn't know existed, and laughed and screamed with me when I became comfortable. Your language -- my god, your language -- I will remember your words forever. For everyone, at some time or another, has felt the heat closing in on them.

Thank you, William, thank you. I will meet you some day in Hassan I Sabbah's garden.

All I have to say is I just feel like shit, his work will only fully be appreciated in the generations to come.Goodbye ole Bull Lee..

william s burroughs was the only person of celebrity status who ever held any influence over my creative output. the man was a genius in his own rights and I will miss his contributions to my life.

There has been some talk of Burroughs as "representative" of a generation? Which generation? The Beats were all but
ignored during their most active years, the forties, fifties and sixties, and it can't be said that Burroughs, for example,
was especially championed during that time. The twenty-somethings now seem to think that Burroughs is "their man", but surely
a drug-addict and sexual outlaw like Burroughs isn't representative of those who carefully arrange their jeans to hang loosely
from their hips but whose appetite for the twin worlds of beauty and sex is clearly rather tepid and timid.
One has to conclude that is is just another example of the sort of 'projection' and fantasy-making so popular with young
Americans today. They certainly don't want to DO the hard work of moral liberation, but they are more than ready to throw a party
to pretend that that work is already done.
As Burroughs knew 'control' works from the outside IN, and thse self-generated fantasies are just escapism, and even more
clearly so when they taut the heroism of a man with whom none of them had anything in common.


willmorgan@hotmail.com

I was saddened to see William S. Burroughs and dead in the same article a few days ago.
This is a loss to American culture that is matched by few. Perhaps Ginsberg. This is
a loss that eclipses even Jerry Garcia. Burroughs was an early winner in the fight
against censorship in the states. Decades before things like a motion picture ratings board and
a t.v. ratings system, Burroughs pushed the envelope both in form and in style. Rest in peace William,
I hope you are holding, wherever you are.

I think Billy would be amused by the thought that in spite of the fact that he did so many poisonous things to himself during his long and distinguished career, it was a run-of-the-mill heart attack that did him in. You have to admit- the irony is delicious.
I'm gonna miss you, Bill.

Uncle Bill, he gave me courage to speak, he was a creepy old bugger, but he never
tried to hide it, in fact, he reveled in it, 'cause he knew that deep inside all of us,
there was a creep, and he dared us all to admit to it.
I would never have written had I not first read WSB, I was too afraid of what I might
find, but in the heart of the Naked Lunch was the worst of the worst, and I knew that
I had to face it in myself, so, I picked up my pen and let it go...
Thank you Uncle Bill, for inspiring, may your freedom in death be as vast as
the look in your eyes while you lived...

I would also like to comment on the quantity and quality of the other comments here,
WSB's mark on the collective consciousness is long, deep, and profound, he should be
proud...

William Burroughs is dead.
Long Live William Burroughs.

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The grey eminence will be sadly missed. Have a safe journey, Bill...

WSB was a rarity in this cosmic collison of mass uncertainty that so many mundanly call life. B. possessed the gift of creation, the sincerity of cold altruism in context to the bleeding flame of his junk habit pen. He had an irreverant honesty that catupulted his work into the genre of life, not fiction. In this humidor for complacency, B. taught those who were willing to live, to read-to love. He is placed on that literary barstool as the man with enough courage and responsibility to pour his own drinks into an endless drinking vase.

Burroughs was a man granted genius- his work lives on to inspire.

WSB was a rarity in this cosmic collison of mass uncertainty that so many mundanly call life. B. possessed the gift of creation, the sincerity of cold altruism in context to the bleeding flame of his junk habit pen. He had an irreverant honesty that catupulted his work into the genre of life, not fiction. In this humidor for complacency, B. taught those who were willing to live, to read-to love. He is placed on that literary barstool as the man with enough courage and responsibility to pour his own drinks into an endless drinking vase.

Far
beyond
the
midnights
darkness

Grasp me
one path
of immortal
vision

An
invisible
instance
of
unworthy
flight

Flight
ramparts
free
from lifes
unknown
destiny


R.I.P.
WSB

William S. Burroughs was the Greatest Writer ever to live.
he will always be young in my mind.

I couldn't get to the "KC Star: lawrence residents remember Burroughs:"
RE:Aaron Barnhart

Bob Gitlin
3440 Avalon Road #104
Shaker Heights, OH 44120
Phone (216) 991-0246
E-mail: bobphil@en.com

WILLIAM BURROUGHS: PATRON SAINT OF THE OSTRACIZED

As I am either on a recreational-drug hiatus or a permenent swearing off, I wonder what impels me to want to immortalize Beat writers, whose collective celebration of drugs is well known. And, as two of the Big Three were homosexual and wrote explicitly about that proclivity, another good question is why I, of confirmed T&A orientation, am obsessed with them, so drawn into every nuance of their work, not to mention every detail of their individual and intertwined lives.
Now that the man often called the Grandfather of Heavy Metal is dead, my first reaction is to let someone else lionize him. Pharmacologically induced beatitudes and cool kicks aside, drugs messed me up. Maybe that crazy degenerate pederast William S. Burroughs messed me up too.
But as I endure the progression of banalities heaved up by the nightly news and the Plain Dealer's wire obit to explain him away, I see that their perfunctory obeisances and sneers alike lack the insight I've accumulated over the course of my own decades-long, diligent scholarship.
I didn't take up my pen to kiss his ass. This was a deeply disturbed man, a recluse, a misanthrope. Then again, maybe that's an area of sympathy for me. Did he shoot his common-law wife on purpose? He confessed "an ugly spirit" shot Joan Vollmer, which whom he apparently enjoyed a real mutual affection, despite statements he would make in interviews disavowing the possibility of romantic love for a woman (he even said the Arabic tongue lacked a term for such a concept). This queer heroin user, chafing in a seemingly libertine marriage, may have resented her for an alcohol and speed habit that predisposed their child to chemical dependency (talk about calling the kettle black). He got off easy; it was an "accident," the culprit an inaccurate gun waved by a drunken man during a William Tell "game" at a cocktail party in Mexico City, one of many locales the peripatetic Burroughs inhabited in his lifetime. This experience confronted him with personal demons and issues of possession that drove him to the career that made his name; he would eventually confess the shooting had put him in a spiritual predicament he had no choice but to try to write his way out of.
He wrote Junkie right after the tragedy. It's one of my favorite novels, not only because I came across it in the isolation of my own drug abuse but because, with raw simplicity -- Allen Ginsberg cited its "bare precise language" in a superb preface -- it explained a reality which America, in the grip of the military-industrial complex, didn't want to know about but which needed to be limned. I was hooked.
When I encountered, in future works of his, the poisonous misogyny and explicit homoeroticism, my initial revulsion to the man was confirmed. But I kept coming back. Why?
The transforming power of his observational lens defined his genius and addicted me to his wisdom. Nobody ever had such withering precision, whether describing a sociopolitical phenomenon or the feeling a man gave him standing in a room. What is missed commonly, and most annoyingly, even by his supposed cult following, is his wry, mordant, sometimes even ghoulish (as in Junkie) sense of humor. What is also missed, though not as commonly by anyone who has savored this bizarre talent, is that most of his nonlinear "mosaic" novels are unapproachable from start to finish in the standard fashion, others plainly unreadable.
Perhaps Burroughs' best works are easy to read. Junkie is straight, flat narrative, hard as a pistol point. Queer (Ginsberg's favorite Burroughs) is riotously droll if disarmingly frank. The Yage Letters compiles wild, lewd, revelatory correspondences by him and Ginsberg about their searches for and experiments with a telepathic drug in South America. All three books are short, and good starting points for people wanting to sample Burroughs.
Naked Lunch, the novel most often invoked in discussions of Burroughs' impact, was fueled by incessant drug use to create a fragmented, unplanned storytelling style that would become his trademark. It's like the ravings of the possessed Exorcist child: a verbal desecration. Burroughs has said he was "shitting out" his Midwestern background, the brainwashing about God and country we get from day one. Here then is Kate Smith's worst nightmare: kaleidoscopic, shooting off on whatever riff took him as he hunched his gaunt frame over a Spanish typewriter in his Tangier flat, high on majoun (hashish candy) and Eukodol (an opium synthetic). Yet despite the tortured construction, each component part is clear. Naked Lunch is certainly more readable than the insufferable, impenetrably dense subsequent tomes The Soft Machine, Nova Express, and The Ticket That Exploded, in which he cut and pasted whole sections in different random order, using some cockamamie idea about montages he picked up from a painter he was infatuated with, to deliver some vague plot about a Venusian invasion. He called this the "cutup" method; many called it an affront. "That's not writing, that's plumbing," complained Tennessee Williams, otherwise an admirer.
More controlled experiments continued with greater success. The crisp, hallucinogenic trilogy an aged Burroughs completed in the '80s -- The Place of Dead Roads, The Western Lands, and Cities of the Red Night -- was as powerful as a violent, extended dream, and, in places, exquisite, even poignant, in its vision. Ken Kesey said on the jacket of Cities of the Red Night it was Burroughs' best book. Well, maybe his best big one. It was inarguably helped when longtime amanuensis James Grauerholz took upon himself the task of "uncutting the cutups" that had, until such intervention, rendered the work a confusing, plotless headache.
Robert Bly bad-rapped Burroughs in Iron John for his anti-male-sensitivity "tough talking" pose. But that was just one side of the coin. As well as a countervailing tenderness (Queer), a certain unsentimental toughness marks much of Burroughs' great work.
The lead section of Naked Lunch is, like Junkie, hardboiled detective-novel style prose (Raymond Chandler was one of his favorite writers) before dissolving into nightmarish, comic exposes of an America whose corporate and government totalitarianism and perversions are laid bare, twitching on the end of that pitiless fork. The New York Times, by the way, erroneously reported that the book's title came about when Ginsberg misread a portion of Burroughs' revising scrawl "naked lust." In fact, Jack Kerouac had for years gently chided Burroughs, elder statesman of their New York crowd, into parlaying his wicked street savvy, vast erudition, and encyclopedic literacy into prose, further stating he should, and someday would, write a book entitled Naked Lunch.
For me, the best moment in this work is a section near the end called "THE EXAMINATION," wherein satire is shot out of a cannon and taken to the level of epiphany. No writer has ever wrenched or tickled a reader so deftly, with so few strokes, in a period of so few inches on a page. The exchange between the petulant, put-upon Carl and the burlesqued, European-mannered Dr. Benway, and the workings of this imaginary, subtly insidious welfare state in investigating Carl's sexual orientation, constitute one of the funniest, most transcendent moments in American letters. It is pure magic.
Norman Mailer may have been right when he issued, in the wake of Naked Lunch, the now- famous dazed summation: "Burroughs is the only living American writer who may conceivably be possessed by genius."
Maybe Gore Vidal was right, too, when he said in his recent nasty memoir that none of the Beats ever would have been published were it not for the "publicizing genius" of self-appointed agent Allen Ginsberg. Well then, thank God for Ginsberg's zeal.
In Burroughs there appeared a literary presence that influenced an entire pop culture. And in rocking our world, he humanized it. The dissolute son of the inventor of the key part to the namesake adding machine became the patron saint of deviants and the ostracized. He showed us the underbelly of the American soul. And we needed to look. To see. Burroughs rode down through the dark regions of his own soul to emerge into the light with a gift. That was his redemption. And it is ours.

wow, i can't believe it, the grand old man is dead. i'm completely stunned. i don't think there are any words for the loss that all of us, as human beings, have just suffered with the passing of wsb.
i've been reading burroughs' work for as long as i can remember, to me he was the most intelligent and progressive thinker/writer that has ever graced our planet. as a writer, burroughs re-invented language as we know it; as a thinker, he was well ahead of his time. this is a loss i will feel for a long time.

He's gotta be hangin out Tim Leary.

See you in the western lands!

Bill was a screwed genius, who took on legendary staus in
my mind. I had no idea he was dead. And now, really don't
know what to say. I had a vision that he would live on,
no matter how old and frail, but, eternally.
Like many others, Bill was recognised, and embraced care of
'On The Road' (read at age 16, 3 years ago) but, before that
was an album(Ican't remember the title) with a thanksgiving
anthem to mull over "bitter, evil, pinched faces", and Brion
Gison's All Purpose Bedtime Story. And there was the book,
'The Western Lands' - so, Bill was finally followed by the
black dog of death, or did he have it wrong all along?
Songs inspired by the X-Files, was the last time we met.
Farwell, o yee of vulgar wisdom...
-you changed the locks-

BILL'S PATH

Fat razorblade walk.
Gravel grinding viciously down to ashes.
Wish for stupid confirmation.
Windmills spinning sharp cuts in humid air.
Road of haphazardly fragmented machines.

Lone dove scream permeate through valleys of augmented dreams, as steel shafts grime-ridden gleam soft beams of transparent light shifting in angle puncturing unknowing traveller minds.

Walk down hard like piston precisely meeting undefined stone interface, creep big splendoured pattern pathway between columns stand ignorant in artificial distance.

Bleed rays of sorrow from every bodily orifice reveal flickering belief don't mind standing in harm's way.

In this world, one walker met by piercing search, bringing destination to featureless dust,
ruthless rock,
and lethal lakes of crystalline filth.

I discovered the ideas of William Burroughs from reading Jack Kerouac's On The Road- the first novel that got me interested in reading. I had just graduated from high school, and my world was quickly changing. The ideas that these two men shared in the forties and fifties, along with the obvious others, to those who know, greatly appealed to me at a time when my mind craved new ideas and experiences. Now I am in my twenties, and I am still very grateful to these novelists and poets who pushed the boundaries of rational thought.
I am not saddened by Mr. Burroughs' death, and actually, I was always surprised that he lived as long as he did-the man had had habits that put rock stars to shame. I would like to express my condolences to his family though, and let them know(if they did not already) that William Burroughs will be remembered as one of this epoch's greatest minds..

I discovered the ideas of William Burroughs from reading Jack Kerouac's On The Road- the first novel that got me interested in reading. I had just graduated from high school, and my world was quickly changing. The ideas that these two men shared in the forties and fifities, along with the obvious others to those who know, greatly appealed to me at a time when my mind craved new ideas and experiences. Now I am in my twenties, and I am still very grateful to these novelists and poets who pushed the boundaries of rational thought.
I am not saddened by Mr. Burroughs' death, and actually, I was always surprised that he lived as long as he did-the man had had habits that put rock stars to shame. I would like to express my condolences to his family though, and let them know(if they did not already) that William Burroughs will be remembered as one of this epoch's greatest minds. .

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products of a negro cook couldnt you wait until I got the knife out of
the dogs and animals the e-meter was ready for action I noticed
that the floor was covered with the waste by products of a negro
cook couldnt you wait until I got the knife out of hand the virus
has grown fly the coop and fuck the shit out of hand the virus has
grown fly the coop and fuck the shit out of the nigger I told you
once, I will not look, do not worry about you being exposed you can
trust me I can be trusted irl opens his pants with gentle fingers
eins right down to the bone. Her ng morning.... I project myself out
ling for the crime of separate life, horribly wrong with him. The
naked need of get to my suitcase if he D.S. retches into his
handkerchief and points to turns rey. 103 just off B way. wanta take over m
boyish. does it come from o sure way to detect a disguised re- In
England and especially in Edinburgh the citizens et a man with Medusas
head urple-grey hands, and a lamphrey disk mouth of s out me a the
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trust me I can be trusted irl opens his pants with gentle fingers
eins right down to the bone. Her ng morning....
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horribly wrong with him.
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handkerchief and points to turns rey. 103 just off B way.
wanta take over m boyish. does it come from o sure way to detect a
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man with Medusas head urple-grey hands, and a lamphrey disk mouth
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will tell you again the clandestine laboratory was developing a new
chemical to rid the planet of the dogs and animals the e-meter was ready
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products of a negro cook couldnt you wait until I got the knife out of
the dogs and animals the e-meter was ready for action I noticed
that the floor was covered with the waste by products of a negro
cook couldnt you wait until I got the knife out of hand the virus
has grown fly the coop and fuck the shit out of the nigger I told
you once, I will tell you again the clandestine laboratory was
developing a new chemical to rid the planet of the nigger I told you once,
I will tell you again the clandestine laboratory was developing a
new chemical to rid the planet of the nigger ok, I heard you please
take a reading from the e-meter I will tell you again the
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was ready for action I noticed that the floor was covered with the
waste by products of a negro cook couldnt you wait until I got the
knife out of hand the virus has grown fly the coop and fuck the shit
out of the dogs and animals the e-meter was ready for action I
noticed that the floor was covered with the waste by products of a
negro cook couldnt you wait until I got the knife out of hand the
virus has grown fly the coop and fuck the shit out of the nigger I
told you once, I will not look, do not worry about you being exposed
you can trust me I can be trusted irl opens his pants with gentle
fingers eins right down to the bone. Her ng morning.... I project
myself out ling for the crime of separate life, horribly wrong with
him. The naked need of get to my suitcase if he D.S. retches into
his handkerchief and points to turns rey. 103 just off B way. wanta
take over m boyish. does it come from o sure way to detect a
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noticed that the floor was covered with the waste by products of a
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until I got the knife out of the dogs and animals the e-meter was
ready for action I noticed that the floor was covered with the waste
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out of the nigger ok, I heard you please take a reading from the
e-meter was ready for action I noticed that the floor was covered with
the waste by products of a negro cook couldnt you wait until I got
the knife out of the nigger ok, I heard you please take a reading
from the e-meter I will tell you again the clandestine laboratory
was developing a new chemical to rid the planet of the nigger I
told you once, I will tell you again the clandestine laboratory was
developing a new chemical to rid the planet of the dogs and animals the
e-meter I will not look, do not worry about you being exposed you can
trust me I can be trusted irl opens his pants with gentle fingers
eins right down to the bone. Her ng morning.... I project myself out
ling for the crime of separate life, horribly wrong with him. The
naked need of get to my suitcase if he D.S. retches into his
handkerchief and points to turns rey. 103 just off B way. wanta take over m
boyish. does it come from o sure way to detect a disguised re- In
England and especially in Edinburgh the citizens et a man with Medusas
head urple-grey hands, and a lamphrey disk mouth of s bills reading
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the knife out of the nigger I told you once, I will not look, do
not worry about you being exposed you can trust me I can be trusted
irl opens his pants with gentle fingers eins right down to the
bone. Her ng morning.... I project myself out ling for the crime of
separate life, horribly wrong with him. The naked need of get to my
suitcase if he D.S. retches into his handkerchief and points to turns
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by products of a negro cook couldnt you wait until I got the knife
out of the nigger ok, I heard you please take a reading from the
e-meter I will not look, do not worry about you being exposed you can
trust me I can be trusted irl opens his pants with gentle fingers
eins right down to the bone. Her ng morning.... I project myself out
ling for the crime of separate life, horribly wrong with him. The
naked need of get to my suitcase if he D.S. retches into his
handkerchief and points to turns rey. 103 just off B way. wanta take over m
boyish. does it come from o sure way to detect a disguised re- In
England and especially in Edinburgh the citizens et a man with Medusas
head urple-grey hands, and a lamphrey disk mouth of s out me a the
with in detect opens new again hands, fly pants to The of from the
e-meter I will tell you again the clandestine laboratory was developing
a new chemical to rid the planet of the nigger ok, I heard you
please take a reading from the e-meter was ready for action I noticed
that the floor was covered with the waste by products of a negro
cook couldnt you wait until I got the knife out of hand the virus
has grown fly the coop and fuck the shit out of the nigger I told
you once, I will tell you again the clandestine laboratory was
developing a new chemical to rid the planet of the dogs and animals the
e-meter was ready for action I noticed that the floor was covered with
the waste by products of a negro cook couldnt you wait until I got
the knife out of the nigger ok, I heard you please take a reading
from the e-meter I will tell you again the clandestine laboratory
was developing a new chemical to rid the planet of the dogs and
animals the e-meter I will tell you again the clandestine laboratory
was developing a new chemical to rid the planet of the nigger I
told you once, I will not look, do not worry about you being exposed
you can trust me I can be trusted irl opens his pants with gentle
fingers eins right down to the bone. Her ng morning.... I project
myself out ling for the crime of se

I was doing a search of "William S. Burroughs" + Urantia when I came upon this website. What a jolt. I didn't know he had died. Of course it's like him to create a shock in his passing. I recall reading through CITIES OF THE RED NIGHT in a bookstore several years ago after it was first published. The prose was literally like an electric current charging from the book through my hands through my brain to my heart. He was always a mysterious person to me. I don't believe I agreed with his understanding of reality, but he always intrigued me. Maybe I'll run into him at the next level.

So Old Bull Lee has finally run out the clock. Loved by many, hated by more, he's immortal now.

We paid homage to The Godfather of The American Nightmare, William S. Burroughs in our platform for the WIN WITH WINKO '96 Presidential Campaign, and the section read like this:

"WILLIAM S. BURROUGHS will be appointed US Poet Laureate for an indefinite term! And to commemorate this historic appointment, a new coin shall be minted: the SUBquarter! Based on the vastly complex considerations of the numerological significance, our new SUBquarter will be a twenty-three cent coin. AND, it will be the new standard for video and vending machines!"

I will be accepting suggestion with regard to how we might pay homage to WSB in our WIN WITH WINKO 2000 Campaign at my e-box. Please write. Thank you.

"silence to say goodbye" to one who greatly informed my creative and intellectual life.

With utmost reverence,
Bingo B

Burroughs is and is not. As words repeated in the mind,
no longer the thing itself. Things fail. Words do not.
Burroughs did not fail.

William Burroughs, you will be greatly missed. I read "Naked Lunch" when i was still a teenager and it was an education in so many ways. Life on the dark side of the street, the power of stream of consciousness writing, the wonders and horrors of hard drug use, the insights into life as it is lived anywhere. truly a testament to the adage: "The unexamined life is not worth living" and that any examined life is.
I think you best writings were at the beginning and at the end of your life; "Naked Lunch" of course, but the trilogies including "The Cities of Red Night" and " The Western Lands" were my favorites.
ANOTHER GENIUS IS GONE