"My mother married my father because he threatened to kill her if she didn't," he says. Burroughs' work is, at the same time, unspeakably sad.
He has his father's acute intelligence, and writes like the poet his mother was - and still is - striving to be: dry, surreal, and with great wit. Burroughs admits that he has wished for his impending world fame with an intensity that amounts to a kind a prayer - like a football supporter, I tell him, who strives to manipulate events by listening to the radio commentary in their lucky socks. On the satellite radio in his car, James Alexander Gordon is reading full-time scores from the Vauxhall Conference. I blame all of this on Burroughs, who seems to generate disorder in the same way that some teenage girls attract poltergeists. There has been substantial ghost activity in the hotel, my landlady says, and the epicentre is my room. At the small hotel where I am staying in Amherst - a college town which, when Burroughs is not in it, is peopled by citizens of tremendous normality - the female proprietor spends her afternoons watching videos of Liverpudlian psychic Derek Acorah in Most Haunted, consoling her husband, who has lost both legs, and is swiftly brought to tears by many of Acorah's favourite topics, such as injustice and sudden death.
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