Charles Bukowski

MI?rcoles, September 05, 2012

1) Finish reading a book of poetry of Charles Bukowski, or Hank for friends, the counterpart to the literature, the antithesis of the beauty I find, their texts are urdidos infinite sensitivity, come from the bowels, this man had more guts than head, why his writing is visceral, regia, forms a kind of intercourse between their lines and the role. Enter the world of Hank is to introduce the life of an alcoholic of full-time, a human being who is his misery with great humor and sensitivity at the same time. Tireless fighter in search for the way of wasting time in a total way, Hank has awakened in today's young people that desire to read, insert between pages and indirectly, take the taste for life. (On one occasion the Hank house phone rang, answered, and what was his surprise, on the other side of the line was the son of another big, Henry Miller, who said: - Bukowski, you're single, you're the best writer of all time, are the monster of the moment - be careful, replied Bukowski, it would be better that you voltearas to your back)(, - not Bukowski, he is finished, he is not nobody, he is nothing compared to ti - Bukowski attributed this attitude to that barrier that exists in the life of any father and son, the latter carrying the weight of one of the leading representatives of the Beat generation and it was difficult to accept it).

On the other hand, Jean-Paul Sartre has described Bukowski as the best poet of all time U.S..

Transcribe a poem by teacher Hank entitled: beer / I do not know how many bottles of beer consumed intended while waiting for things to improve / do not know how much wine, whisky and beer / mainly beer / consumed intended after having broken up with a woman / waiting for the phone to ring / waiting for the sound of steps / and the phone does not ring but much later / and the steps do not reach but much later. / When the stomach is I get through the mouth / they arrive fresh as flowers in spring: / "what hell did?" "/ It will take three days before you can catch me". / A female lasts longer / live seven years and average more than the male, / and takes very little beer / because you know it is bad for the silhouette. / While we get crazy / they are out dancing and laughing with funny boys. / Well, there's beer / bags and bags of empty bottles of beer / and when you pick up one, is desfonda / and the bottles fall shooting / entrechocando is / pouring wet grey ash / and old beer / or bags fall at four in the morning / producing the only sound in your life. / Beer / rivers and seas from beer / beer, beer, beer. The radio goes love songs / while the phone remains silent / and walls loom / and beer is all there is.

Dying Bukowski in the year of 1994, pronounced his last words: is not my day, nor my week, my month, nor my year. Or my life. Be damn!

(2) My health is very bad, I awake revealed with a cough from tuberculosis, I do not know how I had strength to lift me knowing that it could do not smoke during the day, I take a coffee and I make the first attempt to bring me a cigarette in their mouth, the attempt is unsuccessful and almost vomiting. Half-day and time of the second attempt, this time spit saliva, as preparing the playing field, I deeply aspire and my life resumed its sense. I started the day with just a small box, but it's something.