Ah, my favorite of the Central West End writers, William S. Burroughs. Born to a wealthy St. Louis family (anyone remember Burroughs adding machines?), he revolutionized fiction writing with his bizarre techniques such as cut-ups, taking finished text and literally cutting it into strips and rearranging it. Much of his work was drawn from long but intermittent periods of addiction. His narrators were notoriously unreliable, shifting times and personas. Novels such as Naked Lunch, Cities of the Red Night and The Western Lands stirred outrage and admiration. Characters like Dr. Benway wielded humor with predator’s claws.
Towards the end of his chaotic life he moved to Lawrence, Kansas, of all places. He died at 83 of a heart attack and is buried in St. Louis, in the Burroughs family plot in Parisian-elaborate Bellefontaine Cemetery. His marker is unassuming.
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