
“Over and over again I have said that there is no way out of the present impasse. If we were wide awake we would be instantly struck by the horrors which surround us . . . We would drop our tools, quit our jobs, deny our obligations, pay no taxes, observe no laws, and so on. Could the man or woman who is thoroughly awakened possibly do the crazy things which are now expected of him or her every moment of the day.”
Henry Miller
Charles Bukowski was a daily witness to the banal cruelty that afflicts the ordinary and the mad. Through an act of the imagination he turned bitterness into art. Disfigured and set apart, he never fit in the good fold of bourgeois society and culture. One of the so-called Meat Poets, his was a poetry of the body; base and carnal, intoxicated by the cheap & tawdry and stained by the most crass means of satiating those desires and impulses. His eye frames it all.
Henry Miller
Charles Bukowski was a daily witness to the banal cruelty that afflicts the ordinary and the mad. Through an act of the imagination he turned bitterness into art. Disfigured and set apart, he never fit in the good fold of bourgeois society and culture. One of the so-called Meat Poets, his was a poetry of the body; base and carnal, intoxicated by the cheap & tawdry and stained by the most crass means of satiating those desires and impulses. His eye frames it all.
Factotum, Post Office and South of No North, chart the true source of alienation and the dreary routine of the work-a-day world. Work is painted as a soulless enterprise, the buried life, that is washed away in the most crass and vulgar means by those who have no more than that which is at hand.
His first two full- length collections of poems, It Catches My Heart in Its Hands and Crucifix in a Death Hand, parts of which are still available in Burning in Water Drowning in Flame, illustrate all the Bukowski gifts: a keen ear for the musical quality of natural, everyday speech; an ability to infuse significance into desperate, dreadful moments of his own life and those of others without becoming pathetic or sentimental; a tremendous facility of listing and juxtaposing details of everyday life with abstraction either to set a scene or to vivify a theme; an artistic distance from his subjects which allows him to find humor and wisdom in even the most dismal scenario, and a propensity for the narrative poem.
Ham on Rye, an autobiographical novel, in answer to Catcher in the Rye, is a great novel. Bukoswski is an acne disfigured Frankenstein beaten into a misanthropic outcast by his alcoholic father. Henry Chinaski, the Charles Bukowski character, dwells in a hostile universe abused by his father and alienated from his peers by his monstrous looks. It is a portrait of the damned, redeemed only by fabricating the horrendous actual stuff of life into art.
Bukowski, closely read Celine and was heavily influenced by the pen of John Fante. But, he was a solo act. His opus is profound in that it paints a world of class and the underbelly of a culture that is mesmerized by the gross hallucinations of media and ignores the more sordid aspects of actual life. This is not reading for the fainthearted. It’s a cheap carnival ride through Dante’s hell and the underworld of Dostoevsky. These are stories and poems of the disenfranchised. There is no epiphany, just the seedy and maudlin acts of those crushed by the grim architecture of modern aka contemporary life. There is little pleasure and much despair amidst the grimy underpinning of a bawdy and cruel melancholia. It is a portrait of life in all its drunkenness and brutality.
From, The Bone Palace:
Dostoevsky
against the wall,
the firing squad ready.
then he got a reprieve.
suppose they had shot Dostoevsky?
before he wrote all that?
I suppose it wouldn't have
mattered
not directly.
there are billions of people who have
never read him and never
will.
but as a young man I know that he
got me through the factories,
lifted me high through the night
and put me down
in a better
place.
even while in the bar
drinking with the other
derelicts,
I was glad they gave Dostoevsky
a reprieve,
it gave me one,
allowed me to look directly at those
rancid faces
in my world,
death pointing its finger,
I held fast,
an immaculate drunk
sharing the stinking dark with
my
brothers.
Works by Bukowski:
Bone Palace 811.54 BUK
Come on In 811.54 BUK
Factotum FIC BUK
Ham On Rye FIC BUK
Post Office FIC BUK
Run with the Hunted 811.54 BUK
The Captain is Out to Lunch 818.54 BUK
The Pleasures of the Damned 811.54 BUK
Come on In 811.54 BUK
Factotum FIC BUK
Ham On Rye FIC BUK
Post Office FIC BUK
Run with the Hunted 811.54 BUK
The Captain is Out to Lunch 818.54 BUK
The Pleasures of the Damned 811.54 BUK











