Paul Bowles died twelve years ago today.
I’ve read most of his cold, asexual and deeply alien/alienated prose. And I would offer him up as one of the great short stories of the twentieth century, next to F. Scott Fitzgerald. His novels though, we must admit, do not improve upon his short fiction by length; and his latter writings lost much of that strange and uncomfortable voice that made him best work so compelling (“Pages From Cold Point” – how creepy can you get? I still remember the sensation I got when I realized what was happening, what that unreliable narrator would never come out and say. I won’t tell you what it is – you have to read it). But that best work, ahh… it was something else.
When I was young, I went to Tangiers, but was too afraid to knock on his door. A pity, because apparently, he would often welcome such random guests.
the coffee philosopher 
Bowles was also a composer of some skill. I’ve sung a few art songs of his – they’re a pleasure to sing.
I know that he scored some plays by Tennessee Williams.
If I recall, his musical style is similar to late 19th and early 20th century French composers.
His music I find to be light (not a bad thing – much of Chopin, I would argue, is ‘light’) and his short stories and novels to be so oppressive (though also done with a light hand, so maybe the contrast I was just about to set up doesn’t stick).