Charles Bukowski, a figure often described as a bitter, drunken asshole, possessed a profound ability to articulate the hidden ugliness and baseness within the human spirit. This collection of his poetry delves into themes of love, loss, and the resulting descent into debauchery and madness. While Bukowski’s work can be crass and confrontational, it often reveals a heart drowning in sorrow, offering a raw and unflinching look at the human condition. His poetry, characterized by its simplicity and directness, cuts straight to the core, making it both powerful and relatable for those who appreciate its unvarnished honesty.
The heart of this collection lies in Bukowski’s exploration of love, particularly the pain of its failure and loss. Through allusions to a “red haired woman,” he expresses deep regret for a lost love, channeling this pain into a spiral of drunken debauchery. This pursuit of fleeting lust serves as a desperate attempt to quell loneliness, yet it ironically deepens self-hatred and exacerbates the crippling solitude. Bukowski himself embodies the archetype of the struggling artist, often found at the bottom of a glass, maintaining superficial relationships and harboring a deep-seated distrust of women. While he can be seen as a rude misogynist, beneath the layers of crude language lies a profound sorrow. His work is not without its charm; his crassness is often laced with dark humor, and he occasionally expresses genuine remorse for the ways in which people mistreat one another. This distrust of people likely stemmed from a fear of being hurt. Bukowski famously described his writing process as relentlessly pounding his typewriter, referring to it as his “piano,” a testament to his deep appreciation for classical music, particularly Brahms, and his frequent comparisons between music and writing.
Among the poems in this volume is one that not only introduced me to Knut Hamsun, now one of my favorite authors, but also serves as a darkly comical motivation for pursuing a writing career:
How to be a Good Writer
you’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 searching for further references to Hamsun, a surprising discovery was made: handwritten notes in the margins, a mix of the author’s own thoughts and those of a close friend. These annotations transformed the reading experience into a conversation across time with a cherished friend, akin to a brother. The power of language and writing became more evident than ever, serving as a bridge across space and time. This collection, with its themes of loneliness, was particularly fitting for these notes, mirroring the author’s own state of mind at the time. Several years prior, during a darker period, a close-knit group of friends spent their days playing music, drinking, and discussing film and books, often finding solace in shared bitterness following heartbreak. Discovering these notes evoked fond memories of those times, underscoring the profound importance of bonds with friends who become like family, bonds that often resonate more deeply than romantic relationships. This sentiment echoes the sadness found in works like The Savage Detectives, where friendships inevitably spread and fade with the passage of time.
One particular observation from a friend highlighted the pervasive sadness in the collection: “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.” This statement encapsulates the essence of the book. Moments like the circled lines, “oh brothers, we are the sickest and lowest of the breed,” also resonated, evoking memories of shared experiences during a specific summer spent in a cramped, dilapidated apartment. The friend’s act of highlighting every mention of the “redhead” and piecing together the fragmented narrative further enriched the experience.
Moving away from emotional reflection, a quote from Neil Young aptly describes individuals like Bukowski: “every junky is like a setting sun.” They are both difficult and painful to observe directly, yet possess a certain beauty. Bukowski, much like a setting sun, is a painful subject, but within his work lies a discernible beauty. However, prolonged exposure to such individuals or their art can be detrimental, much like staring at the sun can impair vision. Poems and artists like Bukowski, while potent during specific moments of perceived ugliness and crassness, are not meant for prolonged engagement. His work can be empowering during such times, offering validation and the reassurance that others share similar feelings and can still create something meaningful. However, it is crucial to move beyond this state, as dwelling in such negativity can lead to further ugliness and eventual downfall. Bukowski’s work, like much in the emo culture of the mid-to-late 2000s, can be seen as a reaction—a venomous strike against pain rather than a constructive path forward. While the emo culture expressed disdain with self-loathing and tears, Bukowski’s approach involved pushing people away through depraved behavior, masking a deep desire for connection. Ultimately, one cannot remain perpetually angry; overcoming problems is essential for growth, lest they consume us. A life defined solely by failures and sadness is unsustainable; learning to confront and move past these challenges leads to greater strength.
Chuck Palahniuk’s work, though often criticized, illustrates this concept. His stories, popular during a similar era, served as a critique of societal forces, resonating with adolescents who felt constrained by social constructs and turned to nihilism. However, nihilism merely negates and does not transcend. Palahniuk’s refusal to offer solutions to his characters’ problems, coupled with repetitive techniques, led to a loss of interest. While his cynicism and darkness were once appealing, the realization that this approach offered no true way forward prompted a turn towards more uplifting authors. Despite this, Palahniuk’s work served a purpose, offering catharsis during a period of youthful angst. Yet, prolonged indulgence in such negativity, often a mere “pity-party,” can become disheartening.
In conclusion, while reading Bukowski has been a significant experience, his perspectives no longer hold the same sway. The author finds it difficult to wallow in sadness, viewing his overt lusts as creepy and his misogyny as offensive—precisely the reactions Bukowski intended. Nevertheless, the moments of beauty within his work are enduring. The discovery of a friend’s annotations added a deeply personal layer to the experience, allowing for a nostalgic reflection on youthful exuberance and the profound, lasting impact of cherished friendships.
3.5/5
Additionally, this poem, Dinosauria, We, though not from this collection, is highly recommended.
