I'm not a great fan of poetry in general, but I am of Bukowski, so I wanted to check out some of his more well-known compilations, and I wasn't disappointed. This volume definitely bears its maker's mark: gambling, sex, booze, cats, atrocity, stunning imagery, pink suns, 340 dollar horses and hundred dollar whores... life from below in all its sordid wonder. Like Oscar Wilde and Charles Dickens, Bukowski has a rare and enviable talent for making the gritty underbelly of life, full of drunken escapades, flophouses, violent encounters with a cornucopia of miscreants, impatient publishers and crushing despair simply sublime. Like several nineteenth-century authors I can think of, his writings almost make you feel bad about complaining about your rather mundane misfortunes in comparison.
Charles began life as Heinrich Karl Bukowski, born in Andernach to a German mother and an American soldier father, but that in 1920, so it must have been more than just a passing fling. He emigrated to the US at age three and grew up in Los Angeles, the setting for several of his most memorable novels. His hard living began young, giving him plenty of material from which to draw as a writer later in life. Bukowski himself reported that he was introduced to liquor by a childhood friend, whom he later depicted as "Eli LaCrosse" in the novel "Ham on Rye," who was the son of an alcoholic surgeon. His own hard-living "alter ego," Henry Chinaski, is depicted similarly.
Other episodes which eventually became literary canon fodder included the Great Depression, constant teasing about his heavy German accent by neighborhood children in his youth, severe acne in his teens, and an arrest by the FBI in his early 20s during WWII, on suspicion of being a draft dodger. His ethnicity did nothing to help his case, but he was passed over for service upon failing the psychological examination portion of his mandatory military entrance physical. Apparently inspired, he published the short story, "Aftermath of a Lengthy Rejection Slip," at age 24.
CB moved to New York City to become a writer in his youth, but gave it up after failing to get his material published, which kicked off a decade-long hiatus which consisted of little more than a string of odd jobs, ostensible debauchery and heavy drinking, eventually resulting in a bleeding ulcer. These experiences, along with a difficult childhood, formed the foundation for his best-known works. He worked at a pickle factory, then as a letter carrier with the US Post Office in Los Angeles, and frequently lived in cheap boarding houses like the one depicted in "Ham on Rye," the likes of which he had quite extensive experience with. He also frequently lived as a vagabond, traveling around the US, working his way from place to place with the little money he was able to earn.
In short: Bukowski lived life - raw, gritty, unwashed, unabashed life - and then wrote about it. During his convalescence from the ulcer, CB apparently began writing again, which met with far more success than his previous efforts: he is credited with penning thousands of poems and short stories, and six novels, including "Hollywood," "Ham on Rye" and the immortal "Pulp." He only began writing poetry later in life, he reports, at age 35 - his first book of poetry was published in 1959.
Bukowski died in 1994 of leukemia, in San Pedro, CA, shortly after completing his last and perhaps most iconic novel, "Pulp." Ever one for irony, his funeral obsequies were performed by none other than Buddhist monks. He's interred at Green Hills Memorial Park in Rancho Palos Verdes, under a simple flat, gray marker which reads, "Henry Charles Bukowski, Jr. HANK. Don't Try." This last apparently refers to advice he gave to someone in a letter to aspiring writers: when asked "What do you do; how do you write, create?" he reportedly responded, "You don't... You don't try... you wait, and if nothing happens, you wait some more... you wait for it to come to YOU."
This volume is actually an anthology of work from different periods, which allows readers to discern the evolution of his work and outlook on life. Bukowski transforms from a carefree if rough-around-the-edges young man to a cynical, jaded recluse whom one can easily visualize sitting at his desk in a dark, oak-paneled, windowless room, a cigar smouldering in an ash tray at his right hand and a whisky bottle at his left. His poems are vignettes of real life, but he definitely sees things differently as life passes. The first section includes poems from the period 1955-1968, and the second from 1972-1973, with other periods encompassed in different volumes.
What was his creative process like? In one case, he describes it himself in a revealing foreword, specifically that when his publisher "Joe," became "downright unlaced if I didn't have a handful of poems," he would go to a friend's place and stay all night: "we'd take pills and drink and talk." Whatever his creative process, Bukowski is immensely relatable if one has experienced life from below, but paints his portraits with such vivid color and life that even life's downers don't seem so insufferable.
------------------------------------
"nothing matters
but flopping on a mattress
with cheap dreams and a beer"
"and all around me are the lovers,
the two-headed beasts
turning to stare
at the madness
of a singular self;
shamed..."
"a 340 dollar horse and a hundred dollar whore"
"and then I got up and looked in the mailbox
and there was some kind of warning from the
government
but since there wasn't anybody standing in the bushes with
a bayonet
I tore it up"
Charles began life as Heinrich Karl Bukowski, born in Andernach to a German mother and an American soldier father, but that in 1920, so it must have been more than just a passing fling. He emigrated to the US at age three and grew up in Los Angeles, the setting for several of his most memorable novels. His hard living began young, giving him plenty of material from which to draw as a writer later in life. Bukowski himself reported that he was introduced to liquor by a childhood friend, whom he later depicted as "Eli LaCrosse" in the novel "Ham on Rye," who was the son of an alcoholic surgeon. His own hard-living "alter ego," Henry Chinaski, is depicted similarly.
Other episodes which eventually became literary canon fodder included the Great Depression, constant teasing about his heavy German accent by neighborhood children in his youth, severe acne in his teens, and an arrest by the FBI in his early 20s during WWII, on suspicion of being a draft dodger. His ethnicity did nothing to help his case, but he was passed over for service upon failing the psychological examination portion of his mandatory military entrance physical. Apparently inspired, he published the short story, "Aftermath of a Lengthy Rejection Slip," at age 24.
CB moved to New York City to become a writer in his youth, but gave it up after failing to get his material published, which kicked off a decade-long hiatus which consisted of little more than a string of odd jobs, ostensible debauchery and heavy drinking, eventually resulting in a bleeding ulcer. These experiences, along with a difficult childhood, formed the foundation for his best-known works. He worked at a pickle factory, then as a letter carrier with the US Post Office in Los Angeles, and frequently lived in cheap boarding houses like the one depicted in "Ham on Rye," the likes of which he had quite extensive experience with. He also frequently lived as a vagabond, traveling around the US, working his way from place to place with the little money he was able to earn.
In short: Bukowski lived life - raw, gritty, unwashed, unabashed life - and then wrote about it. During his convalescence from the ulcer, CB apparently began writing again, which met with far more success than his previous efforts: he is credited with penning thousands of poems and short stories, and six novels, including "Hollywood," "Ham on Rye" and the immortal "Pulp." He only began writing poetry later in life, he reports, at age 35 - his first book of poetry was published in 1959.
Bukowski died in 1994 of leukemia, in San Pedro, CA, shortly after completing his last and perhaps most iconic novel, "Pulp." Ever one for irony, his funeral obsequies were performed by none other than Buddhist monks. He's interred at Green Hills Memorial Park in Rancho Palos Verdes, under a simple flat, gray marker which reads, "Henry Charles Bukowski, Jr. HANK. Don't Try." This last apparently refers to advice he gave to someone in a letter to aspiring writers: when asked "What do you do; how do you write, create?" he reportedly responded, "You don't... You don't try... you wait, and if nothing happens, you wait some more... you wait for it to come to YOU."
This volume is actually an anthology of work from different periods, which allows readers to discern the evolution of his work and outlook on life. Bukowski transforms from a carefree if rough-around-the-edges young man to a cynical, jaded recluse whom one can easily visualize sitting at his desk in a dark, oak-paneled, windowless room, a cigar smouldering in an ash tray at his right hand and a whisky bottle at his left. His poems are vignettes of real life, but he definitely sees things differently as life passes. The first section includes poems from the period 1955-1968, and the second from 1972-1973, with other periods encompassed in different volumes.
What was his creative process like? In one case, he describes it himself in a revealing foreword, specifically that when his publisher "Joe," became "downright unlaced if I didn't have a handful of poems," he would go to a friend's place and stay all night: "we'd take pills and drink and talk." Whatever his creative process, Bukowski is immensely relatable if one has experienced life from below, but paints his portraits with such vivid color and life that even life's downers don't seem so insufferable.
------------------------------------
"nothing matters
but flopping on a mattress
with cheap dreams and a beer"
"and all around me are the lovers,
the two-headed beasts
turning to stare
at the madness
of a singular self;
shamed..."
"a 340 dollar horse and a hundred dollar whore"
"and then I got up and looked in the mailbox
and there was some kind of warning from the
government
but since there wasn't anybody standing in the bushes with
a bayonet
I tore it up"
