Charles Bukowski is one of America's best-known contemporary writers of poetry and prose, and, many would claim, its most influential and imitated poet. He was born in Andernach, Germany, and raised in Los Angeles, where he lived for fifty years. He published his first story in 1944, when he was twenty-four, and began writing poetry at the age of thirty-five. He died in San Pedro, California, on March 9, 1994, at the age of seventy-three, shortly after completing his last novel, Pulp (1994).
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First of all, who made this ugly cover?
Now that that's out of the way, I'm trying to remember why I declared myself a fan of Charles Bukowski some ten or so years ago when I discovered his work and the person that he is. Other than the fact that I was depressed at that time, it must have been the way he bares all of his guts to the world, his suffering, his demons, without asking for pity, for help. Sometimes you will sense a plea for forgiveness in the subtext of his lines, but only faintly so, you could miss it entirely.
The first few poems in this collection had me seriously question how he had become such a celebrated writer, but soon enough this was answered for me. An amazing poem after another. And it's not entirely in the style of writing, but the attitude he has taken towards writing those words. As you read them, you are there, listening to him speak to himself. You will know how he felt. Really felt.
A heart of stone, a heart so soft.
He has given up, but also not really.
That must have hurt, but he has already pulled away before it could reach him.
I haven't read his work in a long time, and only remember one, my favorite thus far (Raw With Love). This is the first time I read a collection of his in one sitting. I am understanding him better now.
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