This is a letter that William S. Burroughs wrote to Truman Capote in 1970 about ‘In Cold Blood.’ Burroughs was upset that Capote never tried to stop the executions of which he wrote.

My Dear Mr. Truman Capote,

This is not a fan letter in the usual sense—unless you refer to
ceiling fans in Panama. Rather, call this a letter from “the
reader”—vital statistics are not in capital letters—a selection
from marginal notes on material submitted, as all “writing” is
submitted to this department. I have followed your literary
development from its inception, conducting on behalf of the
department I represent a series of inquiries as exhaustive as your
own recent investigations in the Sunflower State. Your recent
appearance before a senatorial committee on which occasion you
spoke in favor of continuing the present police practice of
extracting confessions by denying the accused the right of
consulting consul prior to making a statement also came to my
attention.

I have in line of duty read all your published work. The early
work was in some respects promising—I refer particularly to the
short stories. You were granted an area for psychic development.
It seemed for a while as if you would make good use of this grant.
You choose instead to sell out a talent that is not yours to sell.
You have written a dull unreadable book which could have been
written by any staff writer on The New Yorker—(an undercover
reactionary periodical dedicated to the interests of vested
American wealth). You have placed your services at the disposal of
interests who are turning America into a police state by the
simple device of deliberately fostering the conditions that give
rise to criminality and then demanding increased police powers and
the retention of capital punishment to deal with the situation
they have created. You have betrayed and sold out the talent that
was granted you by this department. That talent is now officially
withdrawn. Enjoy your dirty money. You will never have anything
else. You will never write another sentence above the level of In
Cold Blood. As a writer you are finished. Over and out. Are you
tracking me? Know who I am? You know me, Truman. You have known me
for a long time. This is my last visit.

Capote never wrote another book.