Moonlight, White Satin, Roses. A Bride.

And Each Stroke Of His Tongue Ripped Off Skin After Successive Skin, All The Skins Of A Life In The World, And Left Behind A Nascent Patina Of Shining Hairs. My Earrings Turned Back To Water And Trickled Down My Shoulders; I Shrugged The Drops Off My Beautiful Fur.

I Don't Really Think That Writers, Even Great Writers, Are Prophets, Or Sages, Or Messiah-like Figures; Writing Is A Lonely, Sedentary Occupation And A Touch Of Megalomania Can Be Comforting Around Five On A November Afternoon When You Haven't Seen Anybody All Day.

Cats Of All Kinds Weave In And Out Of The Text; Burroughs Has Clearly Taken To Them In A Big Way In His Old Age And Seems Torn Between A Fear They Will Betray Him Into Sentimentality And A Resigned Acceptance That A Man Can't Be Ironic All The Time.

The Tiger Will Never Lie Down With The Lamb; He Acknowledges No Pact That Is Not Reciprocal. The Lamb Must Learn To Run With The Tigers.

It's Every Woman's Tragedy, That, After A Certain Age, She Looks Like A Female Impersonator. Mind You, We've Known Some Lovely Female Impersonators, In Our Time.