I’ve never had a ‘favorite’ writer before, at least not in the sense of if for some reason I was being stuck there and I could only have one author’s set of books with me I could produce the name instantly.  I was introduced to Burroughs by my very good friend, and soon-to-be-published poet, Ian Morgan, with Dry as a birthday present last year, and frankly it was like anytime I’ve been given a book by an author I’ve never heard of.  It just went on my bookshelf and looked chunky and blue despite the glowing recommendation that had accompanied the wrapping paper coming away whilst I read what I wanted to.

When my ‘to read’ had whittled down and I was waiting for another delivery of books, I finally picked it up.  I read it in two days and I was heartbroken when I hit the halfway point and I realised there was less to read than I had already done so.  I was addicted.  Burroughs became my literary chocolate.  Printed crack.  I read everything.  His two short story collections, Magical Thinking and Possible Side Effects, were so witty and sharp that I had to ration myself to reading only one story a night so the books would last.

It’s been hard waiting for him to write more, but finally it’s here in a memoir about his father.  Burroughs has had one of the most troubled and eccentric lives I’ve ever known, and he writes about it with such humility and frankness that it’s hypnotizing.  Not to mention the laugh-out-loud phrasing he puts on certain things.

This a break from his most recent books and gets back to tredding the ground of his first autobiography, Running With Scissors. Like in acting, it’s harder to be funny than to be serious, so the ones who are damn good at making people laugh have unexpected and astounding talent with the serious.  This book is chilling, strange and it lays a cold hand on your shoulder and a presence at your window.  Just try to read it one chapter at a time.

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