In celebration of Bill Burroughs’ birthday month I wrote a pair of reviews about the drug-loving author of Naked Lunch. First I tackled Barry Miles’ new biography, Call Me Burroughs, a fascinating examination of all phases of the author’s life. 

“Call Me Burroughs” is riddled with weird anecdotes laced with gallows humor, bizarre coincidences and profane punch lines. It’s a massive undertaking made complicated by Burroughs’ peripatetic lifestyle and rampant drug use.

Then I took a look at a book that El Hombre Invisible wrote late in life called The Cat Inside. 

I’m not sure what’s stranger—that Bill Burroughs, the godfather of punk, lifetime dope addict and firearms fetishist, wrote a book about his cats or that, in it, you’ll find lines like this:

“… [A] scarlet orange and green cat with reptile skin, a long sinewy neck and poison fangs—the venom is related to the blue-ringed octopus: two steps you fall on your face, an hour later you’re dead…”

That’s classic Burroughs at his hardboiled finest. But cats? Seriously?

Seriously.