What do you think?
Rate this book
O Capitão Saiu Para o Almoço e os Marinheiros Tomaram Conta do Navio
Publicado nos Estados Unidos quatro anos após a morte de Bukowski, em 1998, sob o título original de Captain is out to lunch and the sailors have taken the ship, esse livro é o último canto desesperado do "velho safado". Contém trechos de seu diário de agosto de 1991 até fevereiro de 1993, selecionados por ele próprio dias antes de morrer, em nove de março de 1994. No texto são comentados alguns episódios frugais, como o hábito de apostar em corrida de cavalos, encontros com figuras marginais e desiludidas como ele próprio, mas a espinha dorsal de O capitão saiu para o almoço e os marinheiros tomaram conta do navio são as cruas reflexões filosóficas sobre a vida, sobre a natureza e miséria humanas:
152 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1999
195 people are currently reading
4543 people want to read
About the author
Charles Bukowski
854 books29.9k followersHenry Charles Bukowski (born as Heinrich Karl Bukowski) was a German-born American poet, novelist and short story writer. His writing was influenced by the social, cultural and economic ambience of his home city of Los Angeles.It is marked by an emphasis on the ordinary lives of poor Americans, the act of writing, alcohol, relationships with women and the drudgery of work. Bukowski wrote thousands of poems, hundreds of short stories and six novels, eventually publishing over sixty books
Charles Bukowski was the only child of an American soldier and a German mother. At the age of three, he came with his family to the United States and grew up in Los Angeles. He attended Los Angeles City College from 1939 to 1941, then left school and moved to New York City to become a writer. His lack of publishing success at this time caused him to give up writing in 1946 and spurred a ten-year stint of heavy drinking. After he developed a bleeding ulcer, he decided to take up writing again. He worked a wide range of jobs to support his writing, including dishwasher, truck driver and loader, mail carrier, guard, gas station attendant, stock boy, warehouse worker, shipping clerk, post office clerk, parking lot attendant, Red Cross orderly, and elevator operator. He also worked in a dog biscuit factory, a slaughterhouse, a cake and cookie factory, and he hung posters in New York City subways.
Bukowski published his first story when he was twenty-four and began writing poetry at the age of thirty-five. His first book of poetry was published in 1959; he went on to publish more than forty-five books of poetry and prose, including Pulp (1994), Screams from the Balcony (1993), and The Last Night of the Earth Poems (1992).
He died of leukemia in San Pedro on March 9, 1994.
Charles Bukowski was the only child of an American soldier and a German mother. At the age of three, he came with his family to the United States and grew up in Los Angeles. He attended Los Angeles City College from 1939 to 1941, then left school and moved to New York City to become a writer. His lack of publishing success at this time caused him to give up writing in 1946 and spurred a ten-year stint of heavy drinking. After he developed a bleeding ulcer, he decided to take up writing again. He worked a wide range of jobs to support his writing, including dishwasher, truck driver and loader, mail carrier, guard, gas station attendant, stock boy, warehouse worker, shipping clerk, post office clerk, parking lot attendant, Red Cross orderly, and elevator operator. He also worked in a dog biscuit factory, a slaughterhouse, a cake and cookie factory, and he hung posters in New York City subways.
Bukowski published his first story when he was twenty-four and began writing poetry at the age of thirty-five. His first book of poetry was published in 1959; he went on to publish more than forty-five books of poetry and prose, including Pulp (1994), Screams from the Balcony (1993), and The Last Night of the Earth Poems (1992).
He died of leukemia in San Pedro on March 9, 1994.
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 30 of 508 reviews
April 4, 2011
Charles Bukowski's The Captain is Out to Lunch and the Sailors Have Taken Over The Ship is a loose collection of journals from the author's last few years alive. He knows death is near and, in between computer repairs and trips to the racetrack, reflects on how to approach his day to day life knowing he won't be on the planet much longer. I started and finished this book on a Friday night and, although I've drifted from Bukowski's work in the last couple decades, I'm glad I read this one.
Bukowski's strongest when he's considering his own motivators and interpreting his own patterns. His primary interaction with humanity in these journals takes place at the race track, where he sits back, observes, and hopes no one approaches him. He's amused when people recognize him and admits he gets suckered every now and then by fake interviewers and photographers, but he focuses mainly on getting back to his house and putting words on the computer screen.
He's funny, too. He attends what appears to be a huge rock concert (U2, I think, although he never names the band) for his wife but gets drunk and wants to get the hell out of the after-party. He gets pissed off when his computer blue-screens and he loses a night's writing. He wipes out while climbing into his jacuzzi. He goes to the mall with his wife. Sooner or later most evenings end late at night with cats, classical music, and the rush he gets from writing. Bukowski asserts his work over his last years is his best ever, and based on this book (I haven't read Pulp, the novel on which he was working through this period, but I will soon), I agree. He's confident, unapologetic, clear-eyed, and in control. Charles Bukowski becomes a model of how to live, in his early seventies, with a courage and honesty refined and less dramatic than his first five decades. This surprised me. “Charles Bukowski” and “model of how to live” were not phrases I expected to type in the same sentence. I hope I turn out as tough as this bastard. He lived out his years, based on The Captain is Out to Lunch and the Sailors Have Taken Over The Ship, in a way I admire.
Bukowski's strongest when he's considering his own motivators and interpreting his own patterns. His primary interaction with humanity in these journals takes place at the race track, where he sits back, observes, and hopes no one approaches him. He's amused when people recognize him and admits he gets suckered every now and then by fake interviewers and photographers, but he focuses mainly on getting back to his house and putting words on the computer screen.
He's funny, too. He attends what appears to be a huge rock concert (U2, I think, although he never names the band) for his wife but gets drunk and wants to get the hell out of the after-party. He gets pissed off when his computer blue-screens and he loses a night's writing. He wipes out while climbing into his jacuzzi. He goes to the mall with his wife. Sooner or later most evenings end late at night with cats, classical music, and the rush he gets from writing. Bukowski asserts his work over his last years is his best ever, and based on this book (I haven't read Pulp, the novel on which he was working through this period, but I will soon), I agree. He's confident, unapologetic, clear-eyed, and in control. Charles Bukowski becomes a model of how to live, in his early seventies, with a courage and honesty refined and less dramatic than his first five decades. This surprised me. “Charles Bukowski” and “model of how to live” were not phrases I expected to type in the same sentence. I hope I turn out as tough as this bastard. He lived out his years, based on The Captain is Out to Lunch and the Sailors Have Taken Over The Ship, in a way I admire.
November 8, 2019
چیزی که همیشه مهم است، خط بعدی است و اگر خط بعدی نیاید من مردهام.
چارلز بوکوفسکی؛ با وسواس و اخلاقی خاص، نویسندهای که نویسنده بودن را جدی نمیگیرد. اما دوست دارد خود را متمایز از دیگران حس کند. او از هر چیزی حالش به هم میخورد. از نگاه کردن به صورت مردم با آن کارهای مسخرهشان امتناع میورزد. وقتی بلندگو اسمش را صدا میزند و همه تشویقش میکنند، او خندهاش میگیرد، چون مطمئن است این همه آدم او را نمیشناسند. مردم مشتاقانه منتظر چاپ کتاب او هستند. چون عادت کردهاند که کتابی با قلم او را بخوانند. بسیاری از مشتاقانی که برای دیدار و امضا و مصاحبه میآیند، در نظر وی حقهباز و متظاهر هستند. آنها به بهانۀ مصاحبه میآیند تا وارد خانۀ او شوند و مست کنند! او چندین بار با همراهی همسرش لیندا، چند مهمانِ مشتاق را از خانه به بیرون پرت کرده است!
گاه، تمام اشتیاق یک علاقهمند را تعمداً نابود میکند، چون او نویسنده است آن هم گاهی! نمیتواند همیشه خود را در مقام نویسنده بودن قرار دهد و به انتظارات مردم پاسخ دهد:
او حس بیزاریای را دارد که شاید بسیاری از اهل کتاب و نویسندگان داشته باشند. بدبینی به عامۀ مردم، یا ستایش انزوا. چون چنین نویسنده و چنین انسانی از رفتارها و علایق مردم حالش به هم میخورد. موسیقیهایی که گوش میدهند را دوست ندارد. فیلم دیدنهایاشن و همه چیز را:
محبوبیت داشتن، برای او قابل هضم نیست، او دوست دارد دنیایش را خودش داشته باشد نه اینکه دیگران با رفتار و با نشان دادن توجهشان، دنیایِ او را بسازند:
تنها همدم او که به تازگی یافته و گاه کمکش میکند و گاه اسباب دردسر میشود، رایانهاش است. با رایانه دیگر نیازی نیست نوشتهها را دوباره غلط گیری کند. کلمات گویی به پرواز در میآیند. اما گاه تمام هر آنچه نوشته پاک شده و صفحه آبی میشود. پس چیزی برای دوست داشتن نمیماند، مگر خودِ نوشتن.
تمام سرگرمی بوکوفسکی در تماشا و شرطبندی مسابقات اسب سواری خلاصه میشود. آن هم در شرایط کاملاً کنترل شده! هرگز بهطور مداوم به یک باجه سر نمیزند تا مبادا با او صمیمی شوند. تماشاگران دیگر هم او را به راحتی نمیتوانند در دسترس داشته باشند. او سعی دارد خود را نویسندهای دیوانه بپندارد:
برای خواندن بوکوفسکی باید دنیای عجیبی را تجربه کنید. او دوست ندارد شما دوستش بدارید!
98/08/17
چارلز بوکوفسکی؛ با وسواس و اخلاقی خاص، نویسندهای که نویسنده بودن را جدی نمیگیرد. اما دوست دارد خود را متمایز از دیگران حس کند. او از هر چیزی حالش به هم میخورد. از نگاه کردن به صورت مردم با آن کارهای مسخرهشان امتناع میورزد. وقتی بلندگو اسمش را صدا میزند و همه تشویقش میکنند، او خندهاش میگیرد، چون مطمئن است این همه آدم او را نمیشناسند. مردم مشتاقانه منتظر چاپ کتاب او هستند. چون عادت کردهاند که کتابی با قلم او را بخوانند. بسیاری از مشتاقانی که برای دیدار و امضا و مصاحبه میآیند، در نظر وی حقهباز و متظاهر هستند. آنها به بهانۀ مصاحبه میآیند تا وارد خانۀ او شوند و مست کنند! او چندین بار با همراهی همسرش لیندا، چند مهمانِ مشتاق را از خانه به بیرون پرت کرده است!
گاه، تمام اشتیاق یک علاقهمند را تعمداً نابود میکند، چون او نویسنده است آن هم گاهی! نمیتواند همیشه خود را در مقام نویسنده بودن قرار دهد و به انتظارات مردم پاسخ دهد:
«همینطور که مشغول قدم زدن بودم این بچه را دیدم که به سمتم میدود. میدانم چه میشود. راهم را بست.
- ببخشید، شما چارلز بوکوفسکی هستید؟
- گفتم: نه، من چارلز داروین هستم و از کنارش گذشتم! ص 121
او حس بیزاریای را دارد که شاید بسیاری از اهل کتاب و نویسندگان داشته باشند. بدبینی به عامۀ مردم، یا ستایش انزوا. چون چنین نویسنده و چنین انسانی از رفتارها و علایق مردم حالش به هم میخورد. موسیقیهایی که گوش میدهند را دوست ندارد. فیلم دیدنهایاشن و همه چیز را:
«اگر روزی ببینم که فقط یک نفر میتواند کاری غیر معمول انجام دهد، باعث میشود تا بتوانم مردم را تحمل کنم اما آنها مبتذل و کثیفاند!» ص116
محبوبیت داشتن، برای او قابل هضم نیست، او دوست دارد دنیایش را خودش داشته باشد نه اینکه دیگران با رفتار و با نشان دادن توجهشان، دنیایِ او را بسازند:
«نویسنده به هیچچیز جز نوشتن مدیون نیست. او به مخاطب چیزی مدیون نیست... خواننده و بهترین انسان کسی است که با نبودنش به من پاداش دهد.» ص 10
تنها همدم او که به تازگی یافته و گاه کمکش میکند و گاه اسباب دردسر میشود، رایانهاش است. با رایانه دیگر نیازی نیست نوشتهها را دوباره غلط گیری کند. کلمات گویی به پرواز در میآیند. اما گاه تمام هر آنچه نوشته پاک شده و صفحه آبی میشود. پس چیزی برای دوست داشتن نمیماند، مگر خودِ نوشتن.
تمام سرگرمی بوکوفسکی در تماشا و شرطبندی مسابقات اسب سواری خلاصه میشود. آن هم در شرایط کاملاً کنترل شده! هرگز بهطور مداوم به یک باجه سر نمیزند تا مبادا با او صمیمی شوند. تماشاگران دیگر هم او را به راحتی نمیتوانند در دسترس داشته باشند. او سعی دارد خود را نویسندهای دیوانه بپندارد:
«اساساً دید من نسبت به نویسندگان اینطور است، انسانهایی نیمهدیوانه که نمیتوانند با جامعه هماهنگ شوند.» ص86
برای خواندن بوکوفسکی باید دنیای عجیبی را تجربه کنید. او دوست ندارد شما دوستش بدارید!
«آنها {نامهها} را میخوانم و دور میریزم. این قرن نوزده است. همیشه خط بعد و خط بعدی آن هم وجود دارد. آنقدر که دیگر چیزی باقی نمیماند. سیگاری دیگر، حمام و بعد هم خواب.» ص 89
98/08/17
March 3, 2022
`Un día lento hoy en el hipódromo, mi maldita vida colgada de un gancho. Voy todos los días. No veo a nadie por allí que vaya todos los días excepto los empleados. Probablemente tenga alguna enfermedad. Saroyan perdió el culo en el hipódromo, Fante con el póquer, Dostoyevski con la ruleta. Y realmente no es cuestión de dinero, a menos que se te acabe. Yo tenía un amigo jugador que me dijo una vez `No me importa ganar o perder, lo único que me importa es jugar.´ Yo le tengo más respeto al dinero. He tenido poco la mayor parte de mi vida. Sé lo que es el banco de un parque, y los golpes del casero en la puerta. Con el dinero sólo hay dos problemas: tener demasiado o tener demasiado poco.´
`No hay que lamentarse por la muerte, como no hay que lamentarse por una flor que crece. Lo terrible no es la muerte, sino las vidas que la gente vive o no vive hasta su muerte. ´
`Es probable que haya escrito más y mejor durante los 2 últimos años que en ninguna otra época de mi vida. Es como si después de 5 décadas de hacerlo me hubiera acercado más a hacerlo de verdad. Y, sin embargo, en los 2 últimos meses he empezado a sentir cierto cansancio. El cansancio es principalmente físico, pero también tiene algo de espiritual. Puede que me esté preparando para el declive final. Es un pensamiento horrible, por supuesto. El ideal era continuar hasta el momento de mi muerte, no desvanecerme.´
He estado reflexionando sobre que plasmar exactamente en esta reseña. Son, como bien dice en la descripción uno de los últimos diarios de Bukowski, entre cartas, novelas, poemas y diarios se considera, ya desde hace tiempo, como un autor bastante prolífico, con una bibliografía bastante extensa.
Un escritor que esperaba la muerte, a una edad que ya se le hacía lo suficientemente pesada como para volverse más antisocial, con menos ganas de conocer el mundo literario que le rodea. No obstante, lejos de ser un escritor derrotado, como bien dice, se encontraba en lo que consideraba los mejores años de su escritura.
Un escritor que conoció la mayor parte de su vida las miserias, mitificado más por la misoginia y el escándalo que por su estilo directo, sucio, desagradablemente real que termina por darte un martillazo de realidad, muchas veces tan necesario para abrir los ojos. Reconocer en sus diarios que cada vez, cansado física y espiritualmente se ve lejos de ser el gran escritor que ha demostrado el tiempo que fue, un escritor que cobra sentido con el paso de los años y de las décadas, vivo en sus letras, sus páginas y sus historias. Realmente siempre me he planteado cuánto de él había realmente en sus novelas, ya que para él todo fue un continuo aprendizaje sobre la enfermedad de escribir, como él lo denominaba. Uno de los grandes autores del siglo pasado lo fue, sin duda, reflejo de una generación desposeída de toda esperanza, desposeída de aquellas letras que hicieron grandes a otros escritores, porque según dijo él, no había mucho más que contar.
La eternidad en la tinta, sus cartas son demoledoras y tremendamente sinceras, ya no pocos escritores, sino que poca gente es capaz de plasmar una propia realidad que se termina con esa fuerza.
Un diario revelador, brutal y que abraza la muerte como a una vieja compañera de la que se ha escapado demasiadas veces.
`No hay que lamentarse por la muerte, como no hay que lamentarse por una flor que crece. Lo terrible no es la muerte, sino las vidas que la gente vive o no vive hasta su muerte. ´
`Es probable que haya escrito más y mejor durante los 2 últimos años que en ninguna otra época de mi vida. Es como si después de 5 décadas de hacerlo me hubiera acercado más a hacerlo de verdad. Y, sin embargo, en los 2 últimos meses he empezado a sentir cierto cansancio. El cansancio es principalmente físico, pero también tiene algo de espiritual. Puede que me esté preparando para el declive final. Es un pensamiento horrible, por supuesto. El ideal era continuar hasta el momento de mi muerte, no desvanecerme.´
He estado reflexionando sobre que plasmar exactamente en esta reseña. Son, como bien dice en la descripción uno de los últimos diarios de Bukowski, entre cartas, novelas, poemas y diarios se considera, ya desde hace tiempo, como un autor bastante prolífico, con una bibliografía bastante extensa.
Un escritor que esperaba la muerte, a una edad que ya se le hacía lo suficientemente pesada como para volverse más antisocial, con menos ganas de conocer el mundo literario que le rodea. No obstante, lejos de ser un escritor derrotado, como bien dice, se encontraba en lo que consideraba los mejores años de su escritura.
Un escritor que conoció la mayor parte de su vida las miserias, mitificado más por la misoginia y el escándalo que por su estilo directo, sucio, desagradablemente real que termina por darte un martillazo de realidad, muchas veces tan necesario para abrir los ojos. Reconocer en sus diarios que cada vez, cansado física y espiritualmente se ve lejos de ser el gran escritor que ha demostrado el tiempo que fue, un escritor que cobra sentido con el paso de los años y de las décadas, vivo en sus letras, sus páginas y sus historias. Realmente siempre me he planteado cuánto de él había realmente en sus novelas, ya que para él todo fue un continuo aprendizaje sobre la enfermedad de escribir, como él lo denominaba. Uno de los grandes autores del siglo pasado lo fue, sin duda, reflejo de una generación desposeída de toda esperanza, desposeída de aquellas letras que hicieron grandes a otros escritores, porque según dijo él, no había mucho más que contar.
La eternidad en la tinta, sus cartas son demoledoras y tremendamente sinceras, ya no pocos escritores, sino que poca gente es capaz de plasmar una propia realidad que se termina con esa fuerza.
Un diario revelador, brutal y que abraza la muerte como a una vieja compañera de la que se ha escapado demasiadas veces.
September 24, 2016
Es increíble la forma en la que Bukowski retrata estos últimos momentos de su vida, casi prediciendo que estaba al borde de la muerte.
November 24, 2020
این کتاب روزنگاریهای پراکندهی چارلز بوکوفسکی در سن هفتادویک و هفتادودوسالگی است. یادداشتهایی که از احساسات ، اعتقادات و انتقاداتش پیرامون زندگی، گذرانوقت، ادبیات، مردم، اسب، شرطبندی و ... به صراحت سخن میگوید.
لحن اثر بسیار رک و خودمانی است و در برخی مواقع طنز نیز چاشنی نوشته میشود.
بخشهایی از کتاب:
- دو چیز پول اشتباه است: خیلی زیاد بودنش و خیلی کم بودنش.
- کمتر نویسندهای از کار بقیه خوشش میآید. کار بقیه وقتی دوستداشتنی میشود که یا نویسندهی آن اثر بمیرد و یا زمان زیادی از مرگش بگذرد. نویسندهها فقط دوست دارند گوه خودشان را بو کنند. من هم از این قاعده مستثنی نیستم.
- اساسا دید من نسبت به نویسندگان اینطور است، انسانهایی نیمه دیوانه که نمیتوانند با جامعه هماهنگ شوند.
- زمان ساخته شدهاست تا به هدر برود. میخواهی چهکار کنی؟ همیشه که قدرت دست تو نیست.
-کنار مرگ بودن به آدم انرژی میدهد.
- یادم است که روزی نامهای طولانی و عصبی از مردی دریافت کردم که میگفت حق ندارم بگویم از شکسپیر خوشم نمیآید. جوانهای خیلی زیادی مرا باور میکنند و به خواندن کارهای شکسپیر تن نمیدهند و گفته بود که من حق ندارم اینگونه حرف بزنم و خلاصه ور زده بود و ور زده بود. جوابش را ندادم اما حالا اینجا جوابش را میدهم. هی رفیق، برو به جهنم و از تولستوی هم خوشم نمیآید.
۹۹/۱/۶
لحن اثر بسیار رک و خودمانی است و در برخی مواقع طنز نیز چاشنی نوشته میشود.
بخشهایی از کتاب:
- دو چیز پول اشتباه است: خیلی زیاد بودنش و خیلی کم بودنش.
- کمتر نویسندهای از کار بقیه خوشش میآید. کار بقیه وقتی دوستداشتنی میشود که یا نویسندهی آن اثر بمیرد و یا زمان زیادی از مرگش بگذرد. نویسندهها فقط دوست دارند گوه خودشان را بو کنند. من هم از این قاعده مستثنی نیستم.
- اساسا دید من نسبت به نویسندگان اینطور است، انسانهایی نیمه دیوانه که نمیتوانند با جامعه هماهنگ شوند.
- زمان ساخته شدهاست تا به هدر برود. میخواهی چهکار کنی؟ همیشه که قدرت دست تو نیست.
-کنار مرگ بودن به آدم انرژی میدهد.
- یادم است که روزی نامهای طولانی و عصبی از مردی دریافت کردم که میگفت حق ندارم بگویم از شکسپیر خوشم نمیآید. جوانهای خیلی زیادی مرا باور میکنند و به خواندن کارهای شکسپیر تن نمیدهند و گفته بود که من حق ندارم اینگونه حرف بزنم و خلاصه ور زده بود و ور زده بود. جوابش را ندادم اما حالا اینجا جوابش را میدهم. هی رفیق، برو به جهنم و از تولستوی هم خوشم نمیآید.
۹۹/۱/۶
June 11, 2020
یادم است روزی نامه ای طولانی و عصبی از مردی دریافت کردم که می گفت حق ندارم بگویم از شکسپیر خوشم نمی آید. جوان های خیلی زیادی مرا باور می کنند و به خواندن کارهای شکسپیر تن نمی دهند و گفته بود من حق ندارم اینگونه حرف بزنم و خلاصه ور زده بود و ور زده بود.
جوابش را ندادم اما حالا اینجا جوابش رامی دهم:
هی رفیق، برو به جهنم و از تولستوی هم خوشم نمی آید.
:D
چقدر خندیدم و تعجب کردم موقع خوندن این کتاب. البته چندان نمیشه اسمش رو گذاشت کتاب بیشتر یادداشت های منتشر شده ی بوکوفسکی بود توی رنج هفتاد سالگیش.
لذت بخش بود و اگه شما هم بوکوفسکی دوستید براتون جالب خواهد بود خوندنش.
سلب ��سئولیت: کتاب از نطر ویراستاری و ترجمه چندتا غلط واضح یافت شد درش و شاید دو بگیرد. خود یادداشت ها هم چندان چنگی به دل نمیزنند. امتیاز کاملا سلیقه ای می باشد.
هشدار:اگر میخواهید بوکوفسکی بخوانید، این را اول نخوانید.
جوابش را ندادم اما حالا اینجا جوابش رامی دهم:
هی رفیق، برو به جهنم و از تولستوی هم خوشم نمی آید.
:D
چقدر خندیدم و تعجب کردم موقع خوندن این کتاب. البته چندان نمیشه اسمش رو گذاشت کتاب بیشتر یادداشت های منتشر شده ی بوکوفسکی بود توی رنج هفتاد سالگیش.
لذت بخش بود و اگه شما هم بوکوفسکی دوستید براتون جالب خواهد بود خوندنش.
سلب ��سئولیت: کتاب از نطر ویراستاری و ترجمه چندتا غلط واضح یافت شد درش و شاید دو بگیرد. خود یادداشت ها هم چندان چنگی به دل نمیزنند. امتیاز کاملا سلیقه ای می باشد.
هشدار:اگر میخواهید بوکوفسکی بخوانید، این را اول نخوانید.
November 28, 2018
Изрод от класа. Обичам го <3
November 4, 2017
Το κακό παιδί της λογοτεχνίας στην προσιτή, ανθρώπινη εκδοχή του. Το ημερολόγιο των τελευταίων ετών της ζωής του διαβάζεται εύκολα. Τόσο εύκολα που ψάχνεις να βρεις τι δεν πάει καλά εδώ πέρα. Η δε απλότητα της γραφής του σε κάνει να τον συμπαθήσεις ένα τσικ παραπάνω. Λες και τα χρόνια που πέρασαν τον μέστωσαν, αν και στο μυαλό μου ο Bukowski δεν θα γινόταν ποτέ ο συμπαθής γεράκος που θα του χαμογελούσες σε μια τυχαία συνάντηση στη γειτονιά.
Αυτό το ημερολόγιο είναι ένας κάποιος αποχαιρετισμός. Μια εικόνα για το ποιος ήταν. Ίσως πάλι δεν μπορώ να είμαι αντικειμενική μαζί του. Έχω απολαύσει ιδιαιτέρως την δουλειά του για να μπορώ να είμαι.
Δεδομένο ένα: ο άνθρωπος υπήρξε ιδιοφυής.
Αυτό το ημερολόγιο είναι ένας κάποιος αποχαιρετισμός. Μια εικόνα για το ποιος ήταν. Ίσως πάλι δεν μπορώ να είμαι αντικειμενική μαζί του. Έχω απολαύσει ιδιαιτέρως την δουλειά του για να μπορώ να είμαι.
Δεδομένο ένα: ο άνθρωπος υπήρξε ιδιοφυής.
October 23, 2024
Scrisul nu este pentru toți, e un obiectiv divin, un ritual, mai degrabă,predestinat zeilor care s-au pierdut printre oamenii simpli, sau prin joburi de nimic, dar au alte idealuri.
Ultima carte a lui Bukowski, scrisă la 71 de ani prin care își ia adio de la cititori, cu care închide pentru totdeauna blițul computerului de la masă la care a învațat târziu să scrie.
Adio tastatura, Microsoft Word și toate celelalte, eu am zburat, ecranul e gol azi, să scrie de acum în colo doar cei care posedă cu adevărat cuvântul, poezia le curge prin măduvă ca niște globule albe, la revedere, pe veci!
Dozele de bere băute pe stomacul gol s-au evaporat probabil în burta computerului, în acest univers încins și negru care respiră doar atunci când îl pornești de jos, de la buton.
Astăzi tastatura zace mută pe birou pentru că marele alcoolic și poet a plecat până la o întrunire cu cititorii din cer.
Mi-a plăcut cartea asta, e mai sensibilă, mai tristă și domola.
Nu îl caracterizează pe Bukowski, ceva în el s-a stins, ca un desktop supraîncalzit...
Ultima carte a lui Bukowski, scrisă la 71 de ani prin care își ia adio de la cititori, cu care închide pentru totdeauna blițul computerului de la masă la care a învațat târziu să scrie.
Adio tastatura, Microsoft Word și toate celelalte, eu am zburat, ecranul e gol azi, să scrie de acum în colo doar cei care posedă cu adevărat cuvântul, poezia le curge prin măduvă ca niște globule albe, la revedere, pe veci!
Dozele de bere băute pe stomacul gol s-au evaporat probabil în burta computerului, în acest univers încins și negru care respiră doar atunci când îl pornești de jos, de la buton.
Astăzi tastatura zace mută pe birou pentru că marele alcoolic și poet a plecat până la o întrunire cu cititorii din cer.
Mi-a plăcut cartea asta, e mai sensibilă, mai tristă și domola.
Nu îl caracterizează pe Bukowski, ceva în el s-a stins, ca un desktop supraîncalzit...
July 4, 2023
تابحال نشده که از روی پل با ماشین رد شوم و به خودکشی فکر نکنم.نمی توانم به دریاچه یا اقیانوسی بدون فکر به خودکشی نگاه کنم اما خودکشی همیشه به من چشمک می زند مثل چراغی که همیشه در تاریکی روشن است ولی همیشه ازبیرون به تو کمک هایی می شود تا بتوانی بیشتر در بازی بمانی میفهمی؟وفقط می توانددیوانگی باشد و اصلا هم جالب نیست رفیق.
April 27, 2025
Поспав, поїв, поїхав на кінні перегони, потім додому та нічне письмо. І так по колу. Не знав, що окрім алкогольної залежності він ще потопав в букмекерських ставках.
Загалом, це типовий Чарльз з його іронічним поглядом на світ та людей довкола. Сумно, що він захоплювався комунякою Горьким, та москалодрочерством тоді займався чи не кожен востерн.
Напевне найкраще, що доводилось читати з його доробку.
Загалом, це типовий Чарльз з його іронічним поглядом на світ та людей довкола. Сумно, що він захоплювався комунякою Горьким, та москалодрочерством тоді займався чи не кожен востерн.
Напевне найкраще, що доводилось читати з його доробку.
October 14, 2020
4.5⭐️
دوست دارم که در زندگی بعدی ام گربه باشم، روزی ۲۰ ساعت بخوابم و منتظر غذا باشم، در گوشه ای بنشینم و ماتحتم را بلیسم. انسانها بدبخت و عصبی اند، تک بعدی فکر میکنند.
ناخدا ناهار رفته و ملوانان کشتی را تسخیر کرده اند
چارلز بوکوفسکی
علی همتیان
انتشارات شمشاد
5⭐️
Tale of ordinary madness
حکایتهایی از دیوانگی های روزمره
4.5⭐️
Pulp
عامه پسند
4.5⭐️
Ham on rye
ساندویچ ژامبون
4⭐️
Post office
اداره پست
4⭐️
Factotum
هزارپیشه
4⭐️
اعترافات مردی چنان دیوانه که با حیوانات می زیست
3.5⭐️
دختری با دامن کوتاه، بیرون پنجره اتاق من، انجیل می خونه
Hollywood to-read
Women to-read
دوست دارم که در زندگی بعدی ام گربه باشم، روزی ۲۰ ساعت بخوابم و منتظر غذا باشم، در گوشه ای بنشینم و ماتحتم را بلیسم. انسانها بدبخت و عصبی اند، تک بعدی فکر میکنند.
ناخدا ناهار رفته و ملوانان کشتی را تسخیر کرده اند
چارلز بوکوفسکی
علی همتیان
انتشارات شمشاد
5⭐️
Tale of ordinary madness
حکایتهایی از دیوانگی های روزمره
4.5⭐️
Pulp
عامه پسند
4.5⭐️
Ham on rye
ساندویچ ژامبون
4⭐️
Post office
اداره پست
4⭐️
Factotum
هزارپیشه
4⭐️
اعترافات مردی چنان دیوانه که با حیوانات می زیست
3.5⭐️
دختری با دامن کوتاه، بیرون پنجره اتاق من، انجیل می خونه
Hollywood to-read
Women to-read
August 29, 2014
You, man, were a genius! Therefore, I'll drink a beer tonight. Or two. And will stare at my sleeping guinea pigs, considering I have no cats.
April 10, 2023
Estuvo bastante bien.
video reseña completa en:
https://www.instagram.com/p/CmW4hQ-pb2b/
video reseña completa en:
https://www.instagram.com/p/CmW4hQ-pb2b/
December 17, 2022
Cam știi la ce să te aștepți dacă l-ai mai citit pe Charles Bukowski. Doar femeile nu mai apar în viața lui acum, când a ajuns la 70 de ani. Mai bea, dar nu atât de mult ca în "anii de glorie". Crede că nimeni nu mai e în stare să scrie (cu excepția propriei persoane, desigur), că toate filmele sunt proaste, că oamenii sunt nesuferiți... Un bătrân Bukowski cât se poate de morocănos și de resemnat, dar la fel de sincer (sinceritate fără filtru) ca întotdeauna. Cu ceva cantități vizibile de tristețe și melancolie în voce.
November 20, 2018
Imao sam da ubijem pola sata do pocetka filma, i naravno jedino mesto koje me u trznim centrima (sem bioskopa) potpuno ne iscrpljuje, je knjizara. Uzeo ovaj dnevnik Bukowskog, koji je pisao sa 70 godina, procitao prva tri unosa i... 495 dinara, odlicno potrosenih, mislim da cu ovo citati vise puta.
Bukowski najvise reci posvecuje procesu pisanja i svojoj ljubavi prema tome, ali prica i generalno o covecanstvu, umetnosti i svetu uopste. Cinican, kakav je, moze da vam legne ili ne legne, ali ono sto se ne moze poreci je da mu je svaka recenica odmerena i na mestu.
Da zavrsim citatom na temu ubijanja sati, sa pocetka ovog misljenja...
"Sati moraju biti ubijeni. Dok cekas. Savrseni sati su oni za ovom masinom. Ali moras da prozivis nesavrsene sate da bi dobio savrsene sate. Moras da ubijes deset sati da bi naterao dva sata da zive. Treba samo paziti da ne ubijes SVE sate, SVE godine."
Bukowski najvise reci posvecuje procesu pisanja i svojoj ljubavi prema tome, ali prica i generalno o covecanstvu, umetnosti i svetu uopste. Cinican, kakav je, moze da vam legne ili ne legne, ali ono sto se ne moze poreci je da mu je svaka recenica odmerena i na mestu.
Da zavrsim citatom na temu ubijanja sati, sa pocetka ovog misljenja...
"Sati moraju biti ubijeni. Dok cekas. Savrseni sati su oni za ovom masinom. Ali moras da prozivis nesavrsene sate da bi dobio savrsene sate. Moras da ubijes deset sati da bi naterao dva sata da zive. Treba samo paziti da ne ubijes SVE sate, SVE godine."
October 28, 2017
Genial Bukowski. Todas mis impresiones están en la reseña: https://eligeunlibro.blogspot.cl/2017...
September 5, 2024
جملات کتاب:
● باید بدانی که برای داشتن ساعت های عالی، باید ساعت های بدی را گذراند، باید به خاطر 2 ساعت خوب زندگی کردن حداقل 10 ساعت را تلف کنی
● تمام چیزی که مهم است نوشتن خط بعدیست؛ اگر نتوانم خط بعدی را بنویسم یک مرده به حساب می آیم
● برای نویسنده فقط یک قاضی نهایی وجود دارد و آن خود نویسنده است، اگر بخواهد بنده ی منتقد ها، ناشر ها و خواننده های شود کارش تمام است
__________________________________________
خلاصه کتاب:
این اثر ،آخرین کتاب نویسنده لس آنجلسی ، چارلز بوکوفسکی است که در 71 سالگی آن را نوشته
(مجموعه یادداشت های روزمره نویسنده به مدت دو سال)
کل زندگی بوکوفسکی در چهار چیز خلاصه می شود: قمار، سکس، الکل و نوشتن
بوکوفسکی این کتاب به غیر از سکس به مابقی علایقش پرداخته
تماشای مسابقه اسب سواری ، بهترین علاقه ی بوکوفسکی است که در تمامی کتاب ها درباره اش گفته شده و در این اثر بیشتر از همه تکرار شده
و در آخر توصیه میکنم این آخرین کتابی باشه که از این نویسنده رنج دیده میخونید 👌🏻
این کتاب رو با ترجمه گنجشک قرمز خواندم و بدون سانسور بود
* توجه: هیچ کدوم از کتاب های بوکوفسکی که در ایران ترجمه شده و فروخته میشوند ارزش خواندن ندارن و لطفا از هیچ کتابفروشی این کتاب هارو نخرید فقط کتاب های آفست یا زیرزمینی رو تهیه کنید
1403 / 06 / 15
● باید بدانی که برای داشتن ساعت های عالی، باید ساعت های بدی را گذراند، باید به خاطر 2 ساعت خوب زندگی کردن حداقل 10 ساعت را تلف کنی
● تمام چیزی که مهم است نوشتن خط بعدیست؛ اگر نتوانم خط بعدی را بنویسم یک مرده به حساب می آیم
● برای نویسنده فقط یک قاضی نهایی وجود دارد و آن خود نویسنده است، اگر بخواهد بنده ی منتقد ها، ناشر ها و خواننده های شود کارش تمام است
__________________________________________
خلاصه کتاب:
این اثر ،آخرین کتاب نویسنده لس آنجلسی ، چارلز بوکوفسکی است که در 71 سالگی آن را نوشته
(مجموعه یادداشت های روزمره نویسنده به مدت دو سال)
کل زندگی بوکوفسکی در چهار چیز خلاصه می شود: قمار، سکس، الکل و نوشتن
بوکوفسکی این کتاب به غیر از سکس به مابقی علایقش پرداخته
تماشای مسابقه اسب سواری ، بهترین علاقه ی بوکوفسکی است که در تمامی کتاب ها درباره اش گفته شده و در این اثر بیشتر از همه تکرار شده
و در آخر توصیه میکنم این آخرین کتابی باشه که از این نویسنده رنج دیده میخونید 👌🏻
این کتاب رو با ترجمه گنجشک قرمز خواندم و بدون سانسور بود
* توجه: هیچ کدوم از کتاب های بوکوفسکی که در ایران ترجمه شده و فروخته میشوند ارزش خواندن ندارن و لطفا از هیچ کتابفروشی این کتاب هارو نخرید فقط کتاب های آفست یا زیرزمینی رو تهیه کنید
1403 / 06 / 15
February 15, 2020
Un diario que transcurre entre vino, hipódromos y música clásica de fondo.
June 17, 2011
Why is it that I have let more than fifteen years pass since reading my last Bukowski? I had always liked him. When he died in San Pedro in 1994, only a year after the last diary entry in The Captain Is Out to Lunch and the Sailors Have Taken Over the Ship, I was surprised to see how busy he had been in his later years. Then, just a few months ago, I heard there was an exhibit of his papers at the Huntington Library in San Marino. I went on the last day and received the surprise of my life: The place was packed with young people -- so packed that I had difficulty barging my way to the glass to see all the exhibits. Something clicked in my brain.
The Captain Is Out to Lunch... is a kind of literary diary covering the period from August 1991 to February 1993. Bukowski had some more shocks for me: He was very much like me. He liked to write, and he liked to listen to classical music. The days of heavy boozing and hanging out with dubious women were over for him (for me, they had never begun, but, so be it). In his latter years, the poet and writer was not unlike me:
Although his prose style is brutally direct -- he never fails to call a spade a bloody shovel -- there is a directness about this diary with the aging author being drawn further and further into a life that consisted of spending hours at the racetrack, writing to the music of Mahler, and fending off crowds of hucksters who want to capitalize on Bukowski's reputation. They pound on his door for autographs, though they forget to bring paper and a pen; they try to photograph or interview him; they want to batten onto his energy and drink wine with him and his wife Linda. As he approaches his last year, he becomes ever more involved in his work and observations.
I'll have to read some more of Bukowski's work in the months to come. After all, he is probably the most representative Los Angeles writer of the last thirty or forty years; and I myself have been an Angeleno during all that time.
The Captain Is Out to Lunch... is a kind of literary diary covering the period from August 1991 to February 1993. Bukowski had some more shocks for me: He was very much like me. He liked to write, and he liked to listen to classical music. The days of heavy boozing and hanging out with dubious women were over for him (for me, they had never begun, but, so be it). In his latter years, the poet and writer was not unlike me:
Classical music was my stronghold. I heard most of it on the radio, still do. [He listened to it on KUSC-FM, like I do.] And I am ever surprised, even now, when I hear something strong and new and unheard before and it happens quite often. as I write this I am listening to something on the radio that I have never heard before. I feast on each note like a man starving for a new rush of blood and meaning and it's there. I am totally astonished by the mass of great music, centuries of it. It must be that many great souls once lived. I can't explain it but it is my great luck in life to have this, to sense this, to feed upon and celebrate it.Turning to popular music, Bukowski feels as disgusted as I do:
[E]very day as I drive to the track I keep punching the radio to different stations looking for music, decent music. It's all bad, flat, lifeless, tuneless, listless. Yet some of these compositions sell in the millions and their creators consider themselves true Artists. It's horrible, horrible drivel entering the minds of young heads. They like it. Christ, hand them shit, they eat it up. Can't they discern? Can't they hear? Can't they feel the dilution, the staleness?"I didn't mean to spend this much time on Bukowski's taste in music. I was just surprised that he felt the way I did.
Although his prose style is brutally direct -- he never fails to call a spade a bloody shovel -- there is a directness about this diary with the aging author being drawn further and further into a life that consisted of spending hours at the racetrack, writing to the music of Mahler, and fending off crowds of hucksters who want to capitalize on Bukowski's reputation. They pound on his door for autographs, though they forget to bring paper and a pen; they try to photograph or interview him; they want to batten onto his energy and drink wine with him and his wife Linda. As he approaches his last year, he becomes ever more involved in his work and observations.
I'll have to read some more of Bukowski's work in the months to come. After all, he is probably the most representative Los Angeles writer of the last thirty or forty years; and I myself have been an Angeleno during all that time.
June 1, 2020
تا اونجایی که یادم میاد،این اولین کتابیه که از بوکوفسکی میخونم.خیلی دوسش داشتم.شخصیت واقعی و لحن خودمونی نویسنده رو دوست دارم.اعتقادم بر اینه که نباید کتابهای بوکوفسکی رو با ترجمه های منتشر شده ی قانونی خوند چون کتاب،ابتر میشه..اون حق مطلبی که باید،ادا نمیشه ولی خب...کتاب خوبی بود...تونستم شخصیت بوکوفسکی و تاملات درونیش رو بشناسم.
March 21, 2022
Παρά την έντονα κυκλοθυμική διάθεση που μου προκαλεί ο Μπουκοφσκι εδώ τον αγάπησα για την αλήθεια του και την οπτική του που ταιριάζει στα 72 χρόνια του . Αγωνίζεται να νοιώσει ότι η ρουτίνα του έχει φλόγα και ζωή και γκρινιάζει για το θάνατο γύρω του . Μαρεσε … ωφειλω να πω ότι αυτές οι σημειώσεις είναι μια εξαιρετικη περίπτωση για να διεισδύσεις στο σύμπαν του …
November 2, 2013
It had been a long time since i read Charles Bukowski and was a bit unsure about this book - being a diary he kept from 1991 - 1993 in LA before his death in 1994. I used to read a lot of Bukowski in high school, who i blame for my negative relationship with men and sexuality. But what is cool is how much writing he continued to do right before he died - and maintained the same cynical and absurd behaviours that he even hated in himself. He wasn't getting into fist fights and drinking to oblivion, but was struggling to put on his shoes, and continued to go to the horse track even though he felt empty about it, how bored he was of popular music, hollywood and people. But i liked that his late night entries he was ok with death and his failing body.
And this entry: "It's good sitting here tonight in this little room on the second floor listening to the radio, the old body, the old mind mending. I belong here, like this. Like this. Like this."
The Robert Crumb illustrations were also A+.
Anyways, i think i'll revisit all those novels I read so long ago. I kind of miss him now.
And this entry: "It's good sitting here tonight in this little room on the second floor listening to the radio, the old body, the old mind mending. I belong here, like this. Like this. Like this."
The Robert Crumb illustrations were also A+.
Anyways, i think i'll revisit all those novels I read so long ago. I kind of miss him now.
December 13, 2016
Creo que en este libro Bukowski no escribe para nadie más que para sí mismo.
Escrito en forma de diario, el autor habla sobre sus problemas, su oficio, el tiempo y su entorno. Se vislumbra un hombre que está a punto de morir y lo sabe, que empieza a ver lo que importa realmente y cómo se le ha ido el tiempo entre viajes al hipódromo y escribiendo sin parar; además de todas esas cosas que hacía.
Aquí caló hondo y no necesitó demasiado adorno ni florituras. Solo la verdad cruda y directa sin tanta pretensión. No deja de ser ese hombre sarcástico, pero con cierta resignación ya estampada en las páginas que denotan la desesperanza y las esperanzas que aún puede salvar.
El autor, sabiendo que estaba en sus últimos años, se cuestionó un poco más y reconsideró sus motivaciones, estudió sus propias maneras y mostró en qué se basaba su vida mientras pensaba, observaba y escribía. Admiro su seguridad y su manera sincera de transmitirla, aunque sea una de las pocas cosas que tomaría de su vida. Es un libro muy honesto, sin dramas, pero con mucha franqueza.
Escrito en forma de diario, el autor habla sobre sus problemas, su oficio, el tiempo y su entorno. Se vislumbra un hombre que está a punto de morir y lo sabe, que empieza a ver lo que importa realmente y cómo se le ha ido el tiempo entre viajes al hipódromo y escribiendo sin parar; además de todas esas cosas que hacía.
Aquí caló hondo y no necesitó demasiado adorno ni florituras. Solo la verdad cruda y directa sin tanta pretensión. No deja de ser ese hombre sarcástico, pero con cierta resignación ya estampada en las páginas que denotan la desesperanza y las esperanzas que aún puede salvar.
El autor, sabiendo que estaba en sus últimos años, se cuestionó un poco más y reconsideró sus motivaciones, estudió sus propias maneras y mostró en qué se basaba su vida mientras pensaba, observaba y escribía. Admiro su seguridad y su manera sincera de transmitirla, aunque sea una de las pocas cosas que tomaría de su vida. Es un libro muy honesto, sin dramas, pero con mucha franqueza.
November 5, 2016
Bukowski and Crumb! The greatest alienation 'tag team' ever!
November 20, 2016
Буковски - по-изморен, по-мъдър, по-тъжен и все така безпощаден и честен. Обичам го.
August 1, 2020
Es un libro que, en realidad, no tiene nada de especial... pero que, sin embargo, me ha encantado. cuando se escribe así no hace falta una gran historia para enganchar al lector.
November 7, 2020
این کتاب بوکوفسکی رو نسبت به باقی کتابهاش کمتر دوست داشتم.
اگه تا حالا کتابی ازش نخوندید، پیشنهاد میکنم از «ساندویچ ژامبون» یا «هالیوود» شروع کنید.
اگه تا حالا کتابی ازش نخوندید، پیشنهاد میکنم از «ساندویچ ژامبون» یا «هالیوود» شروع کنید.
October 25, 2023
„Безсмъртието е глупава измислица на живите.“
„Познавам двама редактори, дето много мразят компютрите. Получих две писма пълни с брътвежи срещу компютъра. Изненада ме злобният им тон. И инфантилността им. Много добре знам, че компютърът не може да пише вместо мен. Ако можеше, нямаше да го взема. И двамата прекаляваха. Компютрите не били полезни за душата. Че кое ли е? Аз обаче обичам удобството. Ако мога да пиша два пъти повече и качеството е същото, тогава предпочитам компютъра. С писането аз летя, с писането запалвам огньове.“
„Почесах се по корема и се престорих на добър дядка.“
„Една нощ, пиян, бях заспал върху някакви кофи. В Ню Йорк. Събудих се от едър плъх, който се беше настанил върху корема ми. Внезапно и двамата скочихме около метър във въздуха. Опитвах се да бъда писател. Сега ме водеха такъв, а едно заглавие не можех да измисля. Бях самозванец.“
„Виж какво, Норман. Почти няма писател, който да харесва написаното от други писатели. Единственият случай, когато ги харесва, е, след като умрат или ако са мъртви отдавна.“
„Той бил добър човек и от петнайсет години публикувал много други поети в списанието си. Пък аз съм бил кофти тип. Бил съм добър писател, но не съм бил добър човек.“
„Хората са прекалено нещастни, сърдити и целенасочени.“
„Влязох и седнах на компютъра. Това е новият ми утешител. Откакто го взех, пиша два пъти по-бързо и по-ефикасно. Вълшебно нещо. Седя пред него, както повечето хора седят пред телевизорите си.
– Това е просто една подобрена пишеща машина – каза веднъж зет ми.
Той не е писател. Не знае какво е, когато думите излитат в пространството, блясват с ослепителна светлина, когато мислите, които ти хрумват, намират израз в думи, а те пораждат още мисли и още думи. С пишещата машина е като ходене в калта. С компютъра е, сякаш караш кънки. Главозамайваща скорост. Разбира се, ако главата ти е празна, няма никакво значение. Освен това редактирането, корекциите... По дяволите, навремето пишех всичко по два пъти. Първия път, за да запиша мислите си. Втория – за да поправям грешките и глупостите. Сега удрям с един куршум два заека – и писането, и брисането.“
„Шейсет години бях беден. Сега не съм нито беден, нито богат.“
„Сигурно е странно да живееш с мен. На мене ми е странно.“
„Ходя на хиподрума почти с нежелание. Прекалено съм глупав, за да измисля друго място, където да отида. Къде, къде да отида през деня? Във Висящите градини? На кино? Бог да ми е на помощ, защото не мога да седя с жените, а повечето мъже на моята възраст вече са покойници, пък ако не са, би трябвало, защото приличат на такива.“
„Получавам обаче много писма от хора, които твърдят, че книгите ми са ги спасили. Аз обаче не пиша за това. Пиша, за да спася собствения си задник. Винаги съм бил аутсайдер, непригоден. Установих го още в училище.
Другото, което установих, бе, че уча бавно. Другите момчета знаеха всичко; аз не знаех нищо. Всичко ми беше тъмна Индия. Бях глупак. Но дори когато бях глупак, знаех, че не съм абсолютен глупак. Имаше някакво малко кътче вътре в мен, което защитавах, нещо ценно. Както и да е. Сега бях в горещото джакузи и животът ми бе към края си. Нямах нищо против, бях изгледал цялото представление. И въпреки това винаги ще има неща, за които да пиша, преди да ме изхвърлят в мрака или каквото има там. Хубавото при думите е, че постоянно препускат, търсят, образуват изречения, купонясват.“
„Живеем в конкурентно общество. Другите искат да изгубиш, за да спечелят те.“
„Освен това след толкова десетилетия писане (а съм изписал камари книги), когато чета нещо от друг писател, имам чувството, че мога да кажа точно къде започва да се преструва – лъжите изскачат, прозират през евтиния гланц... досещам се какво ще пише в следващото изречение, в следващия абзац... Няма плам, няма дързост, няма хазарт. Това е занаят, в който сме много добре обучени, като да поправиш капеща чешма.“
„Когато нещо ме мъчи, гледам някоя или няколко от котките си. Имам девет. Просто гледам как някоя спи или придремва и се успокоявам. Писането също е котка за мен. То ме кара да приема нещата. Успокоява ме. Поне за известно време. После жиците ми пак дават на късо и трябва да започна отначало. Не мога да разбера писателите, които се отказват да пишат. Как се успокояват?“
„– Слушай, сладур, гледай колко сме смешни. Ние сме само инструменти на природата.
– В какъв смисъл?
– В смисъл... гледала ли си как две мухи се чукат или нещо такова?
– ТИ СИ ЛУД! МАХАМ СЕ!“
„Всички, които са се страхували от мен или са ме мразили приживе, изведнъж ще ме заобичат. Думите ми ще бъдат навсякъде.
Ще се образуват клубове и общества на почитатели. Ще бъде ужасно. Ще направят филм за живота ми. Ще ме представят като много по-смел и талантлив, отколкото съм бил. Много повече. Даже на боговете ще им се повдига от това. Човечеството преувеличава всичко: героите си, враговете си, собствената си важност.“
„Животът е хубав, но понякога това зависи от нас.“
„Просто седях. Така трябва да е, помислих си, когато музата окончателно те изостави. На седемдесет и две има реална опасност да те напусне. Способността да пишеш. Обхвана ме страх. Не заради славата. Не заради парите. За мен. Бях разглезен. Нуждаех се от освобождаването, от забавлението, от изпускането на парата чрез писане. Чувството за сигурност. Проклетата работа. Миналото не значеше нищо. Репутацията не значеше нищо. Единственото важно нещо бе следващото изречение. Ако то не дойдеше, значи бях мъртъв, въпреки че теоретически бях жив.“
„Така и не намерих истински приятел. С жените – всяка нова ми носеше надежда, но само в началото. Доста рано се примирих, престанах да търся момичето на мечтите; просто исках някоя, която не е кошмарна.“
„Никога не пиша, ако не съм пуснал радиото на класическа музика, тя винаги е била неразделна част от работата ми. Може би някой някога ще обясни защо толкова много от енергията на Чудото се съдържа в класическата музика.“
„Хората имат нужда от това – бунт срещу установения ред, срещу родителите, срещу нещо. Но тези преуспели музиканти, милионери, каквото и да пееха, вече бяха ЧАСТ ОТ УСТАНОВЕНИЯ РЕД.“
„Около нас беше пълно с кинозвезди. Познавахме се от преди. Това ме безпокоеше. Не ми харесваше и когато вкъщи идваха режисьори и актьори. Не обичах Холивуд, филмите рядко ме вдъхновяваха. Какво правех с тези хора? Дали и аз ставах един от тях? Нима седемдесет и две години съм се борил, за да се влея сега в сивата маса?“
„Супер е, когато известен рокмузикант чете книгите ми, но знам, че в затворите и лудниците също има хора, които ги четат.“
„Още един пропилян ден. Но все още бях жив. Беше почти двехилядната година, а аз бях още жив, каквото и да означаваше това.“
***
“Човечеството преувеличава всичко: героите си, враговете си, собствената си важност.”
― Charles Bukowski, The Captain is Out to Lunch and the Sailors Have Taken Over the Ship
March 9, 2020
This is my third Bukowski book. I read Women and hated it. I then read What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire and liked it so I was curious about this.
The thing about Bukowski is that he's so obnoxious, such an irritating person and yet, I want to listen to him. Even though I know he gets on my nerves, I can't stop reading him and thinking about how our worlds are so different, I feel like I have more in common with Hemingway than with him and yet, I've read more of him.
So this short book is more like a list of diary entries and well, if you thought the life of a 72 year old man is a little dull, you haven't read Bukowski because while his life comes across as repetitive, there's something so refreshing about his bitterness and sullenness, this refusal to be anything else but a dirty old man. I've never heard him speak but I don't feel like I need to in order to know exactly what his voice sounds like.
Update, I just watched an interview with him and I was absolutely right. He sounds exactly like he sounds in his writing, his voice is every bit as soft and aggressive, American with just a hint of German, a little nasal. I am pleased.
Ultimately, the thing that made me most annoyed about this book is Bukowski's sheer lack of unawareness. He goes on and on about how annoyed he is by his fans and his readers, how he hates to be recognized, he condescends over other poets who apparently haven't done enough in order to write and through all of this, he doesn't seem to realize that he is not very interesting and that's really the appeal of his work.
And really, Bukowski, if everyone stopped reading your books, you'd be shattered. He'd be absolutely heartbroken. He doesn't seem to realize that his readers don't need him but he needs his readers. He needs this audience because ultimately, the writing is for him, it's never been about the readers, and wanting to share this with the world just shows this desperation. It all feels like such an act, a facade that Bukowski creates in order to be more like what he'd like to be. Bukowski, with all of his macho vibe, simply can't accept that he needs people to pay attention to his writing, that he likes this attention.
I can't imagine Bukowski as a child, I can't imagine him as a 24 year old, I can't imagine him dead. It's like he's forever in his senior years, that guy who drinks a ton, watches horse races, and shares bitter life stories.
Do I recommend this book? It's so short but at the same time, I'm not sure what it gave me, other than appreciation for my youth and the wholesomeness of the people around me. Like, I'm so blessed not to know anyone like Bukowski in my real life. If you have any type of passion for horse races, this might be good for you.
What I'm Taking with Me
- I liked the title more than I liked the book itself.
- Is anyone surprised that Bukowski is Jewish? It's like, of course he's Jewish.
- Reading this reminded me what it felt like to read his poetry last year while listening to The Wonder Years and seeing them live in London and just, wow, I can't believe it's been a year since then, I love that Bukowski is going to forever remind me of vegan burgers.
Uni Adventures (Almost survived exam season!):
- I have literally been listening to this non-stop and like, I genuinely feel this has added years to my life, the more I watch it, the more details I see and I just- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HMQkV...
- I sobbed while talking about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict in front of a group of Israelis and Palestinians and like, I thought that I'd feel weird looking back at it but now, all I feel is this deep sense of acceptance because this conflict is emotional as heck and I meant every single thing I said.
- I can't believe it took me hearing a Palestinian say this in order to realize that holy shit, just as we grow up without knowing any Arabs, they grow up without knowing any Jews and I think I'm always going to remember the tone of her voice as she said, "I thought Israelis wouldn't like me".
- We had our third elections for this year and I feel a vast sense of apathy. Like, I just don't care anymore, I have lost all faith in the ability of any one of our leaders to fix the problems that plague this region and I just am so entirely disappointed.
-Honestly, the highlight of these elections was that a Peruvian and a Dane lectured me about voting, it's nice to know that at least Peru and Denmark have citizens that care about their country's politics.
- The more I listen to Georgia's song for Eurovision, the more I feel convinced that it's an open letter to the EU, expressing how they would like to be part of the EU but won't give up on who they are. I love you, Georgia, just as you are.
- I may have implied that my Ethics professor is a sexist in my Ethics exam and well, I have zero regrets because the way he talked about Ethics of Care was sexist and I am sure that Carol Gilligan would agree with me on this.
- Had an interview for LGBT+ Birthright and well, if I don't get accepted, I'm just totally gonna blame transphobia. Although, after the terrible experience that was Birthright last time, I'm not sure going to Birthright again would be the best idea.
- A highlight from work would have to be a German lady assuming I know German and me, feeling like it would be rude to interrupt her, just rolling with it. After all this time in Germany, I was able to understand enough in order to figure out what she wanted.
- This worked great until she showed up again about an hour later and said something I didn't understand and I had to admit that I actually don't speak German.
- The disappointment in her eyes will haunt me.
- Also, an Italian and I going simultaneously agreeing that "well, if there's a problem, we can just ignore it until it goes away or it gets worse" and a Brit there just staring at us, disappointed and confused.
- I met a group of Linguistics students and let me tell you, they are most definitely having more fun than Econ students.
- Past me would have never believed that I routinely speak in front of 60+ people and that I am still every bit of an awkward mess when I do it.
- I helped a friend from the dorms with her Hebrew homework and my god, do I even speak Hebrew? What the heck? Who knew that Hebrew even has rules, I thought we were all just collectively winging it?
The thing about Bukowski is that he's so obnoxious, such an irritating person and yet, I want to listen to him. Even though I know he gets on my nerves, I can't stop reading him and thinking about how our worlds are so different, I feel like I have more in common with Hemingway than with him and yet, I've read more of him.
So this short book is more like a list of diary entries and well, if you thought the life of a 72 year old man is a little dull, you haven't read Bukowski because while his life comes across as repetitive, there's something so refreshing about his bitterness and sullenness, this refusal to be anything else but a dirty old man. I've never heard him speak but I don't feel like I need to in order to know exactly what his voice sounds like.
Update, I just watched an interview with him and I was absolutely right. He sounds exactly like he sounds in his writing, his voice is every bit as soft and aggressive, American with just a hint of German, a little nasal. I am pleased.
Ultimately, the thing that made me most annoyed about this book is Bukowski's sheer lack of unawareness. He goes on and on about how annoyed he is by his fans and his readers, how he hates to be recognized, he condescends over other poets who apparently haven't done enough in order to write and through all of this, he doesn't seem to realize that he is not very interesting and that's really the appeal of his work.
And really, Bukowski, if everyone stopped reading your books, you'd be shattered. He'd be absolutely heartbroken. He doesn't seem to realize that his readers don't need him but he needs his readers. He needs this audience because ultimately, the writing is for him, it's never been about the readers, and wanting to share this with the world just shows this desperation. It all feels like such an act, a facade that Bukowski creates in order to be more like what he'd like to be. Bukowski, with all of his macho vibe, simply can't accept that he needs people to pay attention to his writing, that he likes this attention.
I can't imagine Bukowski as a child, I can't imagine him as a 24 year old, I can't imagine him dead. It's like he's forever in his senior years, that guy who drinks a ton, watches horse races, and shares bitter life stories.
Do I recommend this book? It's so short but at the same time, I'm not sure what it gave me, other than appreciation for my youth and the wholesomeness of the people around me. Like, I'm so blessed not to know anyone like Bukowski in my real life. If you have any type of passion for horse races, this might be good for you.
What I'm Taking with Me
- I liked the title more than I liked the book itself.
- Is anyone surprised that Bukowski is Jewish? It's like, of course he's Jewish.
- Reading this reminded me what it felt like to read his poetry last year while listening to The Wonder Years and seeing them live in London and just, wow, I can't believe it's been a year since then, I love that Bukowski is going to forever remind me of vegan burgers.
Uni Adventures (Almost survived exam season!):
- I have literally been listening to this non-stop and like, I genuinely feel this has added years to my life, the more I watch it, the more details I see and I just- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HMQkV...
- I sobbed while talking about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict in front of a group of Israelis and Palestinians and like, I thought that I'd feel weird looking back at it but now, all I feel is this deep sense of acceptance because this conflict is emotional as heck and I meant every single thing I said.
- I can't believe it took me hearing a Palestinian say this in order to realize that holy shit, just as we grow up without knowing any Arabs, they grow up without knowing any Jews and I think I'm always going to remember the tone of her voice as she said, "I thought Israelis wouldn't like me".
- We had our third elections for this year and I feel a vast sense of apathy. Like, I just don't care anymore, I have lost all faith in the ability of any one of our leaders to fix the problems that plague this region and I just am so entirely disappointed.
-Honestly, the highlight of these elections was that a Peruvian and a Dane lectured me about voting, it's nice to know that at least Peru and Denmark have citizens that care about their country's politics.
- The more I listen to Georgia's song for Eurovision, the more I feel convinced that it's an open letter to the EU, expressing how they would like to be part of the EU but won't give up on who they are. I love you, Georgia, just as you are.
- I may have implied that my Ethics professor is a sexist in my Ethics exam and well, I have zero regrets because the way he talked about Ethics of Care was sexist and I am sure that Carol Gilligan would agree with me on this.
- Had an interview for LGBT+ Birthright and well, if I don't get accepted, I'm just totally gonna blame transphobia. Although, after the terrible experience that was Birthright last time, I'm not sure going to Birthright again would be the best idea.
- A highlight from work would have to be a German lady assuming I know German and me, feeling like it would be rude to interrupt her, just rolling with it. After all this time in Germany, I was able to understand enough in order to figure out what she wanted.
- This worked great until she showed up again about an hour later and said something I didn't understand and I had to admit that I actually don't speak German.
- The disappointment in her eyes will haunt me.
- Also, an Italian and I going simultaneously agreeing that "well, if there's a problem, we can just ignore it until it goes away or it gets worse" and a Brit there just staring at us, disappointed and confused.
- I met a group of Linguistics students and let me tell you, they are most definitely having more fun than Econ students.
- Past me would have never believed that I routinely speak in front of 60+ people and that I am still every bit of an awkward mess when I do it.
- I helped a friend from the dorms with her Hebrew homework and my god, do I even speak Hebrew? What the heck? Who knew that Hebrew even has rules, I thought we were all just collectively winging it?
Displaying 1 - 30 of 508 reviews