An nice textured interview with William Burroughs and David Cronenberg.
Deep in Kansas, darkly dressed, William S. Burroughs, a man who shot his wife in the head and waged war against a lifetime of guilt, who has sucked up every drug imaginable and survived, and who has made a fine career out of depravity, can’t on this particular afternoon take another moment of a simple midwestern housefly buzzing around his head. “I can’t stand flies,” grumbles the seventy-seven-year-old author in that distinctively sepulchral voice, which retains a vestige of his St. Louis roots despite his many years on another planet. The fly swoops down onto Burroughs’s plate of cookies. “Terrible,” Burroughs exclaims, exasperated, attempting to backhand the fly into oblivion.
Link: Interview with William S. Burroughs and David Cronenberg
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