Long before his death at the age of 83 in August 1997, the Harvard-educated Burroughs, whose works include Junkie (1953) and The Naked Lunch (1961), had claimed his place as the maverick king of the Beats. Madman or genius, possibly both, he was a showman with a crazy sense of fun but was also, at times, a writer of extraordinary perception. These random journals, written during his final nine months, confirm that right up until the end he was still writing, reading and thinking. He was always opinionated and subversive, and saw himself as an outlaw prophet. For him, rebellion was the only way to preserve individuality, truth and justice. The big statements are here presented in a tone of musing rather than polemic, but even more interesting is the vulnerability on display. Death stalks the pages - "Here I sit with my three old cats, getting closer to eternity all the time" - and the death of his former lover and long-time friend, poet Allen Ginsberg, whom he glimpses early one morning "outside in the leaves", and the death of his special cat Fletch, all make this offbeat testament human, compelling and unexpectedly moving.
