William Burroughs The Cat Inside (1986)
In his later years, Burroughs became a crazy cat lady, and this is the book he wrote during that time, or at least the stack of post-it notes which were eventually collected as a book he wrote during that time. The feline head count at my own house presently stands at fifteen, so you should probably take it as given that I don't use the term crazy cat lady as a pejorative, and this book inevitably increases my appreciation of Burroughs.
As has doubtless been observed in every other review, here we are afforded a glimpse of his softer side, which is nice, not least because he writes about his cats with warmth and affection, but happily without the sort of cloying sentiment which usually renders this sort of thing unreadable. At the same time, even if he's not specifically writing about heroin, boys' bums and firearms, there's still no mistaking this for the work of anyone else. Burroughs' hatred of stupidity and shitheaded authority burned bright right up until the end, only here it serves as part of the protective instincts he feels towards his cats.
This isn't one for the sort of idiots who believe their felines to be reincarnated versions of historical figures (although I personally suspect our own Mr. Kirby may actually have been Burroughs in his previous existence, for what it may be worth); or one for the sort of people who describe the mystical characteristics of their cat with a faraway look in their eyes even when you didn't ask; but it will make a lot of sense to you if you like cats, as I do.
...and still no mention of his best buddy, Porridge. Very strange.
In his later years, Burroughs became a crazy cat lady, and this is the book he wrote during that time, or at least the stack of post-it notes which were eventually collected as a book he wrote during that time. The feline head count at my own house presently stands at fifteen, so you should probably take it as given that I don't use the term crazy cat lady as a pejorative, and this book inevitably increases my appreciation of Burroughs.
As has doubtless been observed in every other review, here we are afforded a glimpse of his softer side, which is nice, not least because he writes about his cats with warmth and affection, but happily without the sort of cloying sentiment which usually renders this sort of thing unreadable. At the same time, even if he's not specifically writing about heroin, boys' bums and firearms, there's still no mistaking this for the work of anyone else. Burroughs' hatred of stupidity and shitheaded authority burned bright right up until the end, only here it serves as part of the protective instincts he feels towards his cats.
This isn't one for the sort of idiots who believe their felines to be reincarnated versions of historical figures (although I personally suspect our own Mr. Kirby may actually have been Burroughs in his previous existence, for what it may be worth); or one for the sort of people who describe the mystical characteristics of their cat with a faraway look in their eyes even when you didn't ask; but it will make a lot of sense to you if you like cats, as I do.
...and still no mention of his best buddy, Porridge. Very strange.
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