From an unpublished essay by William S. Burroughs, part of the vast Burrough's archive which was purchased today by the New York Public Library as part of the Henry W. and Albert A. Berg Collection of English and American Literature.
As a young child I wanted to be a writer because writers were rich and famous. They lounged around Singapore and Rangoon smoking opium in a yellow ponge silk suit. They sniffed cocaine in Mayfair and they penetrated forbidden swamps with a faithful native boy and lived in the native quarter of Tangier smoking hasiesh and languidly caressing a pet gazelle...
Oddly enough, that's always been my dream too.
Posted by: Cynthia Closkey | February 28, 2006 at 07:29 PM
I'm thinking said child has a slightly inaccurate picture of how much writers usually make.
Volume Pills
Posted by: Volume Pills | January 10, 2007 at 09:50 PM