That's a completely nostalgic four stars of course. Has there been a writer whose reputation has plummeted quite so much between the 70s and now as jolly Jack and his tales of merry misogynism? But like Bob Dylan saysWhile riding on a train goin’ westI fell asleep for to take my restI dreamed a dream that made me sadConcerning myself and the first few friends I hadWith half-damp eyes I stared to the roomWhere my friends and I spent many an afternoonWhere we together weathered many a stormLaughin’ and singin’ till the early hours of the mornWith haunted hearts through the heat and coldWe never thought we could ever get oldWe thought we could sit forever in funBut our chances really was a million to oneAs easy it was to tell black from whiteIt was all that easy to tell wrong from rightAnd our choices were few and the thought never hitThat the one road we traveled would ever shatter and splitWell that was me and my pals. I know where each of them are to this day, but we don't see each other. The choices multiplied and it became no longer easy to tell black from white.  Back then we built a whole galaxy of heroes up from wild trips to the art house cinema to quarry Bergman or Pasolini from the granite cliffs of existentialism, or raids on libraries and second hand bookshops when we got to hear first about Kerouac and Kesey, not to mention Tolkien and Mervyn Peake, not to mention Emily Dickinson and Captain Beefheart and folk music and Alan Lomax and Alan Watts and John Fahey and Buffy Sainte-Marie. In those days every discovery hit like an express train and every bookshelf held high explosives. Life is not lived at that intensity for too many years. So forgive me for my four stars for Kerouac, the old bum, the old broke down disgraced beat with his typing not writing and every other reviewer on this site liking to put the boot in, and justified too, really, they're not good books - would I recommed any young person with any marbles to read nearly the whole of Kerouac's pile of typing as I myself did? NO!! Read almost anything BUT Kerouac! But my half damp eyes are staring back to that room. It was on Willow Road in Carlton. You can find it on Google Earth but some other people live there now.

"It began as a mistake." By middle age, Henry Chinaski has lost more than twelve years of his life to the U.S. Postal Service. In a world where his three true, bitter pleasures are women, booze, and racetrack betting, he somehow drags his hangover out of bed every dawn to lug waterlogged mailbags up mud-soaked mountains, outsmart vicious guard dogs, and pray to survive the day-to-day trials of sadistic bosses and certifiable coworkers.This classic 1971 novel--the one that catapulted its author to national fame--is the perfect introduction to the grimly hysterical world of legendary writer, poet, and Dirty Old Man Charles Bukowski and his fictional alter ego, Chinaski.

people are not good to each other.perhaps if they wereour deaths would not be so sad.Love him or hate him, Charles Bukowski was a bitter, drunken asshole with a gift for putting onto paper all the ugliness and baseness hiding in the human heart. Before jumping into the discovery and thoughts that are the inspiration for this ramble about the dirty old writer, a few moments should be spent on the actual poetry found in this volume. I’ve always enjoyed the earlier Bukowski, before he became too jaded and bitter and let a few really tender moments flower within all the crassness. Love, and more specifically the failures and loss of it, are the heart of this collection. All through the poems here are allusions to the ‘red haired woman’, whom Bukowski shows a deep regret in loosing. Much of the crassness feels reactionary to this loss of love as Bukowski documents a spiral into dirty, drunken debauchery and madness as a method of hardening the heart against such pains. Love is replaced with lust to erase loneliness, yet, ironically, it only instills further self-hatred and builds towards a crippling loneliness.\
  there is always one womanto save you from anotherand as that woman saves youshe makes ready todestroy.\
Bukowski is that drunk asshole always diving to the bottom of a glass, keeping shallow relationships and never trusting women. He is, at best, a rude misogynist, but under the layers of dysphemism, we see a heart drowning in sorrow (and booze). There is still some charm though, he is often humorous in his crassness, and there are moments where he truly shows remorse for the terrible manner in which human beings treat one another. He  did not really like people, probably a lot of that having to do with his fear of being hurt by others. His poetry is rather simple, nothing complex to pick apart, and very rarely uses many poetic devices, but that is what makes it so powerful. It cuts right to the heart. He often describes the writing process as pounding the keys like a prizefighter, and often refers to his typewriter as his 'piano' (Bukowski was a huge fan of classical music, especially Brahms, and compares music and writing often).This collection contains a poem that not only introduced me to Knut Hamsun (who is now one of my favorite authors), but I’ve always kept in mind as a darkly comical motivation for being a writer:How to be a Good Writeryou've got to fuck a great many womenbeautiful womenand write a few decent love poems. and don't worry about ageand/or freshly-arrived talents. just drink more beermore and more beer and attend the racetrack at least once a week and winif possible learning to win is hard -any slob can be a good loser. and don't forget your Brahmsand your Bach and yourbeer. don't overexercise. sleep until moon. avoid paying credit cardsor paying for anything ontime. remember that there isn't a piece of assin this world over $50(in 1977). and if you have the ability to lovelove yourself firstbut always be aware of the possibility oftotal defeatwhether the reason for that defeatseems right or wrong - an early taste of death is not necessarilya bad thing. stay out of churches and bars and museums, and like the spider bepatient -time is everybody's cross, plusexiledefeat treachery all that dross. stay with the beer. beer is continuous blood. a continuous lover. get a large typewriterand as the footsteps go up and downoutside your window hit that thinghit it hard make it a heavyweight fight make it the bull when he first charges in and remember the old dogswho fought so well: Hemingway, Celine, Dostoevsky, Hamsun. If you think they didn't go crazyin tiny roomsjust like you're doing now without womenwithout foodwithout hope then you're not ready. drink more beer. there's time. and if there's notthat's all righttoo. While looking to find more references to Hamsun in this collection, I noticed that within the margins, my own handwriting was mixed with that of another’s. It turns out that one of my closest friends, a friend I have not seen in years and have been separated from by the circumstances of life that separate even the closest of people, had gone through this book and left me all sorts of comments for me to think about, as well as comment upon my own reaction. It was like having a conversation across 3 years time with an old friend, the type of friend that is more like a brother. The power of language and writing seemed more important than ever suddenly, as it is a tool tying people together across space and time. This particular collection couldn’t be more fitting to find these notes written years earlier (I have a few other books where we both wrote notes to each other, such as Thus Spoke Zarathustra which we were both reading at the same time while he was our ‘guy on couch’ at an old apartment), both with Bukowski’s discussions of loneliness, but as it was indicative of my current state at that time. A few years ago was a bit of a darker period where the group of us had close ties and stayed rather under the radar of society. I would go to class, return to our apartment and we would spend all our time playing music, drinking and discussing film and books. This was a bitter period, as I had been in that post-heartbreak stage where the world seems ugly and, like Bukowski, just wanted to revel in my bitterness for awhile. Finding these notes brings back only the happy memories of those times and makes you realize that the loss of someone you loved as a brother is far more important to you than the loss of any former lover, and these are the people you miss most down the line in the birth pangs of some lonely, introspective morning. This all reminds me very much of the Savage Detectives and that sadness of people spreading out across the map as friendships rust and wash away in the changing tides. What struck me most was his notes about the sadness that permeates this collection. In one margin is written: ‘Bukowski seems genuinely troubled/depressed by the imagery of failed relationships and their aftermath – the failings of love and the intended + unintended ways we hurt one another’. That more or less sums this book up. I also enjoyed moments where he circled lines such as ‘oh brothers, we are the sickest and lowest of the breed’, which summed up that summer we all spent together in our tiny, dirty Ypsilanti apartment. He was also kind enough to highlight every mention of the ‘redhead’ and string together the story that is told through fragments.Enough of that emotional reflection though, nobody likes that sort of stuff. Which leads me to a quote from Neil Young (my favorite, and it pains me to be referencing such an obvious song instead of some lesser-known greater one) that ‘every junky is like a setting sun’. They are on their way out, difficult, if not painful, to look right at, yet beautiful. Bukowski fits this bill, as his life and works are painful to watch, but there is some beauty in there. Also like a setting sun, people like this aren’t something you can hang around long or you will get hurt (or loose your vision if you stare at the sun too long!). This is a messy metaphor, but I swear it’s going somewhere. Poems like those of Bukowski, or people who fit this bill such as drinking buddies, are good for certain times and places, however, you can’t linger there. When you are feeling dirty and ugly and crass, Bukowski is wonderful fun. Works like his are empowering at those times because you can relate and laugh along with, and, primarily, because it is reassuring to see that others with this same ugliness are able to create something beautiful. Once you’ve had your fill though, the time comes to move forward, as this sort of ugliness can only lead to more ugliness and eventually it will fill you and drag you down with it. These types of works are very reactionary, only as a venomous bite toward what hurts you and not a truly constructive method of moving on. The mid to late 2000s was full of this sort of behavior, look at the emo culture, where people wanted to express their disdain for the world around them (the emo culture did it with more self loathing and tears, whereas something like Bukowski is more about pushing someone away through acting depraved and hard when you actually truly want them to get close to you). However, we can’t always be angry and we have to move on, get over our problems, or they win. They become us. We can’t be simply made up of only our failures and sadness, we must learn to deal with them, get past them, and win by being stronger than our problems. I tend to rag on Chuck Palahniuk a lot, but he really fits this idea for me, and if I can quickly explain it, perhaps I won’t have to keep using him as an example anymore. His works were very popular in the era mentioned above (okay, I know Bukowski wasn’t writing then, but this has transcended Bukowski’s works into a discussion about getting over problems), because they were a gripe against social forces. Chuck P. took hold of many adolescents through writing stories with adults who are characterized like angsty teenagers. They view the world and societal constructs as threatening, as something holding them down, and turn to nihilism to deal with that. However, nihilism will only negate things, it won’t transcend them. I lost interest in Palahniuk once I realized that he would never offer a true solution to the problems he imposes on his characters (as well as simply recycling characters and techniques, but that is a different discussion). I couldn’t wallow in his cynicism and darkness any longer, and turned to bigger, better and brighter authors. I have never looked back. Yet, I can’t condemn him entirely, because he fit my 17 year old needs for awhile. I enjoyed Fight Club at the time, Choke made me laugh, and sometimes it is good to wallow in the ugliness. But stay to long and the pity-party, because that is all it really is, becomes sad and pathetic.All in all, I’m glad I’ve read Bukowski, but I feel like my life has taken me places where his opinions no longer really reach me. I can’t wallow in that sadness, and I find his lusts rather creepy and his woman-bashing rather offensive. However, that is exactly what he was striving for. Still, those moments of beauty are worth coming back for, and I can’t express enough how cool it was to find the notes from my friend. Mostly, being able to reminisce about those days of stupid, wild youth is what really holds my heart.3.5/5Okay, and this poem, Dinosauria, We is great (although not from this collection)

Bukowski

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