This is profoundly fascinating and unnerving. I feel sort of embarrassed that I've never even heard of the guy. God, this is how writers end up sometimes... alone, reclusive, and strange in a Brooklyn apartment... kidnapping and shaving the neighbors, then spray-painting them... ultimately setting themselves and all their worldly possessions on fire. I can't think about this too much right now or I'll get depressed.
AFTERWARD, city officials and cleaning crews sifted through the contents of the apartment, which had been flattened into a charred, soggy, hip-high heap. There was a huge collection of esoteric science-fiction books and journals, personal correspondence and drawers full of rejection letters and notices of unpaid taxes. There were countless devices and literature suggesting an encyclopedic array of sexual deviancy.
Scattered about were numerous manuscripts, mostly short stories that read gritty, dark and fantastical, with names like “The Case for Humanity,” “The Once-a-Year-Night of the Memory Man” and “Listen ... Listen ...” Stacked neatly atop a bureau, as if a work in progress, were several hundred burnt-edged pages of a manuscript titled “The Coming of Bealtaine.” The word, which refers to an Irish and Scottish summer celebration, is derived from a Gaelic word meaning bright fire.