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3.51 AVERAGE
3.51 AVERAGE
I wasn't so surprised by this encounter I had with Bukowski, but I am still willing to give him other chances.
I love how beautifully he depicts ugliness; how what is socially seen as grotesque has the right to exist - and to just be - here.
I didn't love every single poem; I don't believe they are all 5-star poems, but there are some brilliant ones that made me rate it as a 4-star book. My favorite ones are: madness, now, if you were teaching creative writing, he asked, what would you tell them?, melancholia, the crunch, the meek have inherited. how to be a great writer and an almost made up poem.
I will certainly come back to these frequently. I will certainly read more of his work.
I didn't love every single poem; I don't believe they are all 5-star poems, but there are some brilliant ones that made me rate it as a 4-star book. My favorite ones are: madness, now, if you were teaching creative writing, he asked, what would you tell them?, melancholia, the crunch, the meek have inherited. how to be a great writer and an almost made up poem.
I will certainly come back to these frequently. I will certainly read more of his work.
Much to my dismay, I adore Bukowski. He’s offensive to many people, I’m sure. He’s been accused of being a misogynist and worse.
So far I’ve read 29 of his books, and there’s almost nothing he can say that offends me. However, this is the first of his works where I finally thought was too much. Too much fucking. Too many teenage girls, too many blondes.. I was much more amused when he was screwing old ugly prostitutes before he became famous.
This dissolved the illusion that he preferred old ugly whores to younger girls if given the choice.. imo he made himself sound like a common douche bag and I thought he was much cooler than that. He’s still my top two favorite writers of all time. Him, and Patti Smith, 2 opposite sides of the spectrum.
So far I’ve read 29 of his books, and there’s almost nothing he can say that offends me. However, this is the first of his works where I finally thought was too much. Too much fucking. Too many teenage girls, too many blondes.. I was much more amused when he was screwing old ugly prostitutes before he became famous.
This dissolved the illusion that he preferred old ugly whores to younger girls if given the choice.. imo he made himself sound like a common douche bag and I thought he was much cooler than that. He’s still my top two favorite writers of all time. Him, and Patti Smith, 2 opposite sides of the spectrum.
This was a train wreck that I enjoyed nonetheless. It was like sitting down with a recently heartbroken friend who is depressed and probably hell bent on self destruction as a form of distraction by taking beer and sleeping around.
Some of the poems were wonderfully written and the pain Charles felt bled through the pages and into my heart through the words.
Others were bitter and cruel, leaving a bad aftertaste.
Most were funny in a self depreciating /my life is going to hell kind of way.
On how to be a great writer, he said:
"you’ve got to fuck a great many women
beautiful women
and write a few decent love poems.
and don’t worry about age
and/or freshly-arrived talents.
just drink more beer
more and more beer
and attend the racetrack at least once a
week
and win
if possible.
learning to win is hard—
any slob can be a good loser.
and don’t forget your Brahms
and your Bach and your
beer.
don’t overexercise.
sleep until noon.
avoid credit cards
or paying for anything on
time.
remember that there isn’t a piece of ass
in this world worth over $50
(in 1977).
and if you have the ability to love
love yourself first
but always be aware of the possibility of
total defeat
whether the reason for that defeat
seems right or wrong—
an early taste of death is not necessarily
a bad thing.
stay out of churches and bars and museums,
and like the spider be
patient—
time is everybody’s cross,
plus
exile
defeat
treachery
all that dross.
stay with the beer.
beer is continous blood.
a continuous lover.
get a large typewriter
and as the footsteps go up and down
outside your window
hit that thing
hit it hard
make it a heavyweight fight
make it the bull when he first charges in
and remember the old dogs
who fought so well:
Hemingway, Celine, Dostoevsky, Hamsun.
if you think they didn’t go crazy
in tiny rooms
just like you’re doing now
without women
without food
without hope
then you’re not ready.
drink more beer.
there’s time.
and if there’s not
that’s all right
too."
Some of the poems were wonderfully written and the pain Charles felt bled through the pages and into my heart through the words.
Others were bitter and cruel, leaving a bad aftertaste.
Most were funny in a self depreciating /my life is going to hell kind of way.
On how to be a great writer, he said:
"you’ve got to fuck a great many women
beautiful women
and write a few decent love poems.
and don’t worry about age
and/or freshly-arrived talents.
just drink more beer
more and more beer
and attend the racetrack at least once a
week
and win
if possible.
learning to win is hard—
any slob can be a good loser.
and don’t forget your Brahms
and your Bach and your
beer.
don’t overexercise.
sleep until noon.
avoid credit cards
or paying for anything on
time.
remember that there isn’t a piece of ass
in this world worth over $50
(in 1977).
and if you have the ability to love
love yourself first
but always be aware of the possibility of
total defeat
whether the reason for that defeat
seems right or wrong—
an early taste of death is not necessarily
a bad thing.
stay out of churches and bars and museums,
and like the spider be
patient—
time is everybody’s cross,
plus
exile
defeat
treachery
all that dross.
stay with the beer.
beer is continous blood.
a continuous lover.
get a large typewriter
and as the footsteps go up and down
outside your window
hit that thing
hit it hard
make it a heavyweight fight
make it the bull when he first charges in
and remember the old dogs
who fought so well:
Hemingway, Celine, Dostoevsky, Hamsun.
if you think they didn’t go crazy
in tiny rooms
just like you’re doing now
without women
without food
without hope
then you’re not ready.
drink more beer.
there’s time.
and if there’s not
that’s all right
too."
I read a lot of poetry so I came into this with high expectations since a friend recommended him to me in high regards. Sorry to say, I was disappointed, you can only read so many of the poems about sex, masturbation, and vulgarity before you get bored and lose interest (which I did frequently). I did enjoy a grand total of 3 poems: The Crunch, The Escape, and I’ve Seen Too Many Glazed-Eyed Bums Sitting Under a Bridge Drinking Cheap Wine. He is a good writer but next time I’ll just be reading select poems instead of whole work because that felt like a waste of time and I could care less to about 337 pages of a man being raw with his life, you can get that experience anywhere because old white men never shut hell up.
This was a train wreck that I enjoyed nonetheless. It was like sitting down with a recently heartbroken friend who is depressed and probably hell bent on self destruction as a form of distraction by taking beer and sleeping around.
Some of the poems were wonderfully written and the pain Charles felt bled through the pages and into my heart through the words.
Others were bitter and cruel, leaving a bad aftertaste.
Most were funny in a self depreciating /my life is going to hell kind of way.
On how to be a great writer, he said:
"you’ve got to fuck a great many women
beautiful women
and write a few decent love poems.
and don’t worry about age
and/or freshly-arrived talents.
just drink more beer
more and more beer
and attend the racetrack at least once a
week
and win
if possible.
learning to win is hard—
any slob can be a good loser.
and don’t forget your Brahms
and your Bach and your
beer.
don’t overexercise.
sleep until noon.
avoid credit cards
or paying for anything on
time.
remember that there isn’t a piece of ass
in this world worth over $50
(in 1977).
and if you have the ability to love
love yourself first
but always be aware of the possibility of
total defeat
whether the reason for that defeat
seems right or wrong—
an early taste of death is not necessarily
a bad thing.
stay out of churches and bars and museums,
and like the spider be
patient—
time is everybody’s cross,
plus
exile
defeat
treachery
all that dross.
stay with the beer.
beer is continous blood.
a continuous lover.
get a large typewriter
and as the footsteps go up and down
outside your window
hit that thing
hit it hard
make it a heavyweight fight
make it the bull when he first charges in
and remember the old dogs
who fought so well:
Hemingway, Celine, Dostoevsky, Hamsun.
if you think they didn’t go crazy
in tiny rooms
just like you’re doing now
without women
without food
without hope
then you’re not ready.
drink more beer.
there’s time.
and if there’s not
that’s all right
too."
Some of the poems were wonderfully written and the pain Charles felt bled through the pages and into my heart through the words.
Others were bitter and cruel, leaving a bad aftertaste.
Most were funny in a self depreciating /my life is going to hell kind of way.
On how to be a great writer, he said:
"you’ve got to fuck a great many women
beautiful women
and write a few decent love poems.
and don’t worry about age
and/or freshly-arrived talents.
just drink more beer
more and more beer
and attend the racetrack at least once a
week
and win
if possible.
learning to win is hard—
any slob can be a good loser.
and don’t forget your Brahms
and your Bach and your
beer.
don’t overexercise.
sleep until noon.
avoid credit cards
or paying for anything on
time.
remember that there isn’t a piece of ass
in this world worth over $50
(in 1977).
and if you have the ability to love
love yourself first
but always be aware of the possibility of
total defeat
whether the reason for that defeat
seems right or wrong—
an early taste of death is not necessarily
a bad thing.
stay out of churches and bars and museums,
and like the spider be
patient—
time is everybody’s cross,
plus
exile
defeat
treachery
all that dross.
stay with the beer.
beer is continous blood.
a continuous lover.
get a large typewriter
and as the footsteps go up and down
outside your window
hit that thing
hit it hard
make it a heavyweight fight
make it the bull when he first charges in
and remember the old dogs
who fought so well:
Hemingway, Celine, Dostoevsky, Hamsun.
if you think they didn’t go crazy
in tiny rooms
just like you’re doing now
without women
without food
without hope
then you’re not ready.
drink more beer.
there’s time.
and if there’s not
that’s all right
too."