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3.51 AVERAGE
3.51 AVERAGE
dark
emotional
funny
sad
medium-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
A mix
Loveable characters:
No
Rating: 4 out of 5 dogs
(if you know, you know)
(if you know, you know)
Reading Love is a Dog from Hell felt like adopting a stray mutt that bites you, steals your dinner, and somehow still makes you cry because it looks so sad.
Bukowski's poems are messy, scrappy, and a little flea-ridden, but damn if they don't sit barking by your side and demand attention.
Bukowski's poems are messy, scrappy, and a little flea-ridden, but damn if they don't sit barking by your side and demand attention.
Much to my dismay, I enjoyed this book. What’s worse? I’ll probably end up reading more Bukowski…
adventurous
emotional
funny
relaxing
"I loved you like a man loves a woman he never touches, only writes to, keeps little photographs of."
Bukowski, where do I begin. A brilliant writer, bitter, and misogynistic. A derogatory hedonist toward women. A sick, twisted fuck. But we knew that going into this, right?
It's challenging to enter into an author's mind at a specific era when morals and values were exponentially different now than they were back then. (For most, at least). His writing is cathartic and humiliating and makes me want to vomit sometimes. But he's brutally honest. A dog. But an honest one.
"there is a loneliness in this world so great that you can see it in the slow movement of the hands of a clock."
His loneliness is palpable. Something I can certainly relate to.
Here's another:
"I'm going, she said. I love you, but you're
crazy, you're doomed."
Bukowski knows he's insane and fucked up and miserable and awful.
I'll take the beautifully written one-liners interwoven between trashy layers of misogyny. I'll bury the rest.
Bukowski, where do I begin. A brilliant writer, bitter, and misogynistic. A derogatory hedonist toward women. A sick, twisted fuck. But we knew that going into this, right?
It's challenging to enter into an author's mind at a specific era when morals and values were exponentially different now than they were back then. (For most, at least). His writing is cathartic and humiliating and makes me want to vomit sometimes. But he's brutally honest. A dog. But an honest one.
"there is a loneliness in this world so great that you can see it in the slow movement of the hands of a clock."
His loneliness is palpable. Something I can certainly relate to.
Here's another:
"I'm going, she said. I love you, but you're
crazy, you're doomed."
Bukowski knows he's insane and fucked up and miserable and awful.
I'll take the beautifully written one-liners interwoven between trashy layers of misogyny. I'll bury the rest.
medium-paced
I've had sex too Charles, not gonna act all weird about it though. Parts of this book really work for me but overall it was misogynistic
"The flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.
there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.
nobody ever finds
the one.
the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill
nothing else
fills."
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.
there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.
nobody ever finds
the one.
the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill
nothing else
fills."
I was tempted to give it 5 stars. The first of Bukowski’s work that I’ve read but it seemed incredible how thoroughly confessional this confessional poetry was. He is arrogant, but knows his downfalls and accepts them with a sort of cheerful nihilism. I would be very interested in reading some of his later work to see if and how his self-reflections change.
RIP Sigmund Freud, you would’ve loved psychoanalyzing Charles Bukowski.