In 1986, as William Burroughs was working on The Western Lands, the final instalment of the epic trilogy with which he closed his career as a novelist, he published a small book with a small print run. That book was The Cat Inside, republished this year by Penguin in a highly desirable ‘Modern Classics’ edition.

It is not a book often listed among the must-read works of this godfather of the beats, yet as an introduction to his writing I can think of none better. Readers who might be put off by the dark world of Naked Lunch, or the labyrinthine experiments of the cut-ups which followed, will find here examples of the many styles Burroughs can employ: the precise, poetic prose of his descriptions; the withering sarcasm of his ‘old queen’ persona; the raconteur, and the angry moralist.

Yet, for all that, the voice that holds the stage most often is one that many readers may find surprising: a gentle, caring, down-to-earth lover of cats. In pieces that never exceed a page, and rarely exceed a paragraph, Burroughs chronicles the cats he has encountered over the years. His accounts are for the most part heart-warming, sometimes poignant or moving, but never mawkish. From strays, to kittens born at home, to faithful house cats and finally loss or death, from visions and fantasies to memories and predictions, Burroughs manages to touch on every aspect of his relationship with cats in less than a hundred pages.

The subject may seem to be limited, and incongruous at that, given his reputation, but Burroughs’ thoughts on cats act as a prism, shining light into corners of his life and mind. We find here all of Burroughs, in miniature: The Land of the Dead, a theme of his late work, gets a look in; a rollercoaster and Ferris wheel call to mind the carnival atmosphere of Naked Lunch; his wife Joan turns up, as does his lover Kiki. As he writes at one point “This cat book is an allegory, in which the writer’s past life is presented to him in a cat charade.” The cute subject matter does nothing to dampen Burroughs’ rage at those who destroy the beautiful, nor does it limit his imagination. The passage in which he mourns the passing of exotic creatures is classic Burroughs, the moment that he segues from obscure fact into exquisite fantasy as hard to spot as ever.

The Cat Inside is a charming, amusing and beautiful book, and one which shows that Burroughs is no less a writer stripped of the drugs, sex and strangeness. “Cat hate” writes Burroughs, “reflects an ugly, stupid, loutish, bigoted spirit.” It would be going too far to say I would apply those adjectives to anyone who disliked this book, but I would certainly wonder at the state of their soul.

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