El padecimiento continuo

by Charles Bukowski

Esta obra es una recopilación de poemas inéditos de Charles Bukowski (1920-1994), uno de los más célebres, imitados convulsivos y compulsivos poetas del siglo XX. Nacido en Alemania, es sin embargo uno de los autores más emblemáticos de la literatura norteamericana, hasta el extremo de Joyce Carol Oates ha dicho de él que es el "Walt Whitman de Los Ángeles", ciudad en la que residió durante 50 años.

Genres: Poetry, Classics, Contemporary, Fiction, Poetry Plays, Love, American

151 pages, Paperback

Published January 1, 2011

About the author

Henry 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.

Reviews

[Agir(آگِر) · Rating 3 out of 5]

من نه می‌خواهم زندگی نهنگ‌ها را نجات بدهم، نه این‌که بساط اتمی برچیده شود، دنیا هرطور که باشد من با آنم. شاید بگویم چیزی را دوست ندارم اما نمی‌خواهم آن را تغییر دهم. من خیلی خودخواهم...فقط می‌خواهم مسواکم را بزنم و امیدوارم دندان‌هایم نریزند؛ امیدم این است که در سال آینده هم بتوانم شق کنم

بچه‌گانه‌اس!؟...تنفربرانگیز!؟...شاید ازش متنفر باشید... اما در حرف‌هایش یک چیز هست؛ خلوص نیت به اندازه‌ی قلبِ کوچکِ یک کودک...چهارم ابتدایی می‌خواندم که فیلمی سیاه و سفید دیدم...همه می‌خواستند زود بزرگ شوند، بعد که بزرگ شدند حسرت کودکی از دست رفته‌شان را می‌خوردند...آدم بزرگا از این همه نقشی که بازی می‌کنند خسته می‌شوند...از این همه نقاب...اما این بوکفسکی حسرت هیچی را نمی‌خورد...مهم نیست چیزهای زیادی را از دست دادی...ذات زندگی همین است...از ادامه‌اش لذت ببر...او همه‌ی نقاب‌ها را پس زده...در 65 سالگی هم هنوز پر از ولع و خودخواهی کودکانه‌اس...منتظر فرصت‌های بعدی است...هنوز بیشتر از آنکه یک مرد گنده باشد یک کودک است...یک کودک که می‌خواهد همیشه توی بازی باشد...خودشم قبول دارد...که این کارش رذیلانه‌اس که زن‌ها را به جای هم‌بازی به چشم اسباب‌بازی‌ می‌بیند...مردها هم برایش دلقکی بیشتر نیستند...از این لحاظ فک نکنم احساس پشیمانی و گناه داشته باشد...در یک کلام...به رئالیته زندگی بوکفسکی خوش اومدین...این مرد هیچ چیز را آنقدرها جدی نمی‌گیرد

زندگی چیزی که ما فکر می‌کنیم نیست
تنها خیالی است که از آن داریم
و برای ما
آن‌چه خیال می‌کنیم
به حقیقت بدل می‌شود


جملات ناب حضرت:

نوشتن یک سمفونی، آسان‌تر از دوست داشتن و احترام ورزیدن به همسایه‌ات است


من اینجا منتظر می‌شینم
شراب اثر نمی‌کنه
بعد دستم یک لیوان دیگه رو پر می‌کنه
در نهایت مبارزه تو این جنگ نتیجه‌اش باخت بود
این دفعه
مثل دفعه‌های دیگه
شب‌های دیگه
شهرهای دیگه
منتظر مرگ می‌مونم

[Steven Godin · Rating 4 out of 5]

I am drunk trying to
stay off the bottle for one
night;
the t.v. has drugged me with
stale faces that say
nothing.
I am naked and alone
on the bed;
among the twisted sheets
I read a
supermarket
scandal sheet
and am dulled with the
treacherous boredom of
famous lives.
I drop the paper to the floor
scratch my balls.
good day at the track:
made $468.
I look at the ceiling.
ceilings are friendly
like the tops of
tombs;
then I enter a stage of
half-sleep, the best kind:
totally relaxed yet
semiconscious
under the overhead
light
with my cat
asleep at my feet.

[پیمان عَلُو · Rating 5 out of 5]

دیشب کتاب سگی را تموم کردم که متعلق به هیچکس نبود،کتاب یه ولگرد،یه ولگرد چاق و صورتی تغمی و اندامی شل و ول،نه قیافه هالیوودی داشت،نه شکم شیش تیکه و نه ساندیس خور بود اما چیشد که جویس کارول اوتس بهش میگفت (والت ویتمن) لس آنجلس؟،
لئونارد کوهن میگه بوکوفسکی همه رو از آسمان به زمین آورد حتی فرشته ها رو،بوکوفسکی لعنتیی که میتونست از پس شاش گربه،آبجو شراب سرازیر شده،سیگار و خاکستر سیگار و تقریبا هرچیز لعنتی دیگه ای بربیاد. بوکوفسکی عصبانی سلین مانند داشت...

<<بهشون گفتم:نوشتن سلین از حرف زدن همه شما بهتر بود>>



کتابی به اسم وضعیت همیشگی:

<<ما هنرمندانی را میپسندیم که گرسنگی کشیده اند یا دیوانه شده اند یا خودکشی کرده اند
و بعد ها کشف شده اند
زیرا استعداد فوق العاده معمولا پنجاه یا صد سال از زمان خودش جلو تر است>>

اما سوال اینه پنجاه یا صد برای بوکوفسکی کفاف میده؟؟
راحت میتونم بگم؛ ۲۰۰ سال الهی فاصله داریم تا بوکوفسکی.

بوکوفسکی اصلا قابل توصیف نیست کلمات هم از وصفش یاغی میشن،این کار گر زشت ،کلمات خوشگل رو دوست نداشت...یهو خدا رو چه دیدی برگشت به زنش گفت:<<تو خونه مشروب نداریم،من پول ندارم اما تو کُست رو داری>>

یک <<ندانمگرای>> پر دردسر.
یه بدبخت داغان،
از اینکه نمیتونست خودشو داغان کنه بیزار بود،بوکوفسکی میتونه هزاران درد داشته باشه به شرط اینکه مشروب باشه و کصی برای گاییدن،وتلمبه زدن...

در آخر :<<نوشتن یک سمفونی، آسان‌تر از دوست داشتن و احترام ورزیدن به همسایه ات است>>

و سپاس باد اِسپرمی را که بوکوفسکی از آن به وجود آمد

[Blair Roberts · Rating 5 out of 5]

This book is a short collection of old and new poetry from Bukowski. What I enjoy about Bukowski’s works as a poet is his lack of pretentiousness. He is immensely readable and still delivers a simple and profound message. I love the doodle cover by the BUK himself.

• “Contentment between agonies is the elixir of existence.”

• “I keep pondering the
imponderable.
Adam and Eve without belly buttons?
and if so, Why?”

• “The world and I seldom agree on most matters.”

[Kelly Rochotte · Rating 5 out of 5]

Bukowski’s newest collection is one that dwells in the mind of an aging man, even though the poems span his career. While the bitter genius that lends itself to the poet’s reputation is still very much present in The Continual Condition, as a set of poems, it also speaks to Bukowski’s ability to provide deep philosophical musing in just a few words — whether about his own particular bad habits, or of those around him. The longer poems, such as “This Flag Not Fondly Waving,” and the reflective and simplistic “as Buddha smiles” reveal that one of poetry’s most beloved dirty old men was, at the same time, a man of deep thought and observation.
With a cover featuring Bukowski’s sparse depictions of himself (drinking and smoking, as luck would have it), a devoted reader might be put off at the prospect of repetition in The Continual Condition, as some of the poems have been previously printed in other collections (namely, War All the Time and Bone Palace Ballet, to name a few). That is an issue where, in my humble opinion, the Black Sparrow editions of his work tend to fare much better than the Harper Collins, which came later and tend to give the feeling that Bukowski’s name is being thrown onto new volumes for money-making, and not for the sake of a reader’s admiration.
Overall, the collection can not be called better or worse than the earlier, thicker volumes, although as a longtime reader of his poetry, it *feels* at times like a good mixture of poems composed when Bukowski was younger, and also when he was aging. The themes of women and drinking, sex and dirtiness are ever-present, but the larger theme seems to be one of death - an approaching, smiling face, perhaps “the continual condition” itself. The abrupt, chopped-off-but-somehow-complete style of writing that is definitively his lends itself to this feeling, a foresight of mortality that has a biting clarity to it. For readers coming to his work for the first time, it would be a wonderful introduction, but it might disappoint Bukowski fans or collectors of his work for the simple fact that it reprints many poems that were already published.
Overall, The Continual Condition stands up nicely next to his other posthumous collections, including much thicker volumes like The People Look Like Flowers at Last (2008). However slim it might be, it resonates in its bitter kind of love for the ordinary grime of life and gets away with it, as Bukowski usually does, with the everyman language that helps him to remain one of the best American poets of the 20th century. I’ll end with my personal favorite line, as an example of his genius regarding the future he (somehow) already knew about: “3-year-olds will have computers/and everybody will know everything/about everybody else/long before they meet them/and so they won’t want to meet them” (“This Flag Not Fondly Waving”). This is an unlikely but welcome prophet of our century speaking, to be sure.

[Alvand · Rating 5 out of 5]

نوشته‌های این پیرمرد مثل مرهم رو زخمه.
انقدر عریان و بی‌محابا که مستقیم تا عمق روحت نفوذ می‌کنه و آخرش میگی کاش تموم نمیشد.

[Bahar meow · Rating 3 out of 5]

”سعی می کنم که آدم ها رو از اینجا دور نگه دارم
حضور آدم ها هیچ سودی برام نداره
مخصوصا مکالمه هاشون
بعد از اینکه ساعت ها بهشون گوش می دم
می فهمم که حرفاشون هیچ ربطی به هیچ چیز نداره
و اینکه تنها و بزدلن و نیاز دارن تا من گازی که از روحشون خارج میشه رو استشمام کنم.
مهم نیست چقدر سخت تلاش کنم که اون ها رو بیرون اینجا نگه دارم بعضی هاشون سُر می خورن داخل.“



”زندگی با کسی که دوست نداری و با او باشی بدتر از مرگ است؛ هشت ساعت کار در جایی که از آن نفرت داری، بدتر از مرگ است.“



”ما هنرمندانی را می پسندیم که گرسنگی کشیده اند یا دیوانه شده اند یا خودکشی کرده اند و بعد ها کشف شده اند اتفاقی معمول است،
زیرا استعداد فوق العاده، معمولا پنجاه یا صد سال از زمان خود جلوتر است.
بیشتر آن هایی که در زمان خودشان به نام و شهرت می رسند، اجرا کنندگانی میان مایه اند.
البته این باوری متداول است،
آن قدر متداول که بسیاری از کسانی که در زمان خود شناخته نمی شوند باور دارند که این، نشانی از نبوغ حقیقی آن هاست.“

[Poncho González · Rating 2 out of 5]

Bukowski tiene una gran pluma y algunos de sus poemas son capaces de desbaratar por completo y remover todo tu ser, lastimosamente son los menos, ya que su gran mayoría de poemas no me gustan, por el motivo de que sólo narran hechos que son poco interesantes para mi y no transmiten nada.

"Hago lo que puedo para evitar
que la gente entre aquí.
La gente nunca
me ha hecho ningún bien, sobre todo su conversación.
Después de escucharla durante horas,
llego a la conclusión de que sus palabras
no tienen nada que ver con nada
que son personas solitarias y cobardes
y que solo necesitan
expulsar sus gases espirituales
para que yo los huela.

Por mucho que intente mantenerlos alejados
algunos se cuelan
por lo general con el pretexto
de que
me han hecho algún favor
y deben ser recompensados.
Ningún favor pueden hacerme
a menos que me lo haga yo
a mí mismo.

Pero en ocasiones
descubro que me muestro amable con ellos
por algún capricho tonto
que no puedo explicar
y entonces me los encuentro allí
enfrente de mí rodeándome."

[Moon rain · Rating 4 out of 5]

این پیرمرد هرزه واقعا معرکه هست!

[Carlos Pelay · Rating 3 out of 5]

This also is one of my favorite lines: “3-year-olds will have computers/and everybody will know everything/about everybody else/long before they meet them/and so they won’t want to meet them” (“This Flag Not Fondly Waving”).

This line seems prescient - I was trying to track down when this particular poem was written but wasn't successful. [this line also resonated because at the same time I was also reading "The Machine Stops" by E.M. Forster (written in 1903?) - a dystopian tale where everyone lives in a kind of "hive", isolated (even from family), and physical contact is unnecessary. All needs are provided by the "machine" (technology/internet/the state?).]

Anyway, although I had read a poem or two by Bukowski in anthologies this was the first book of his that I've read. While I thought there was some unevenness in the quality of the poems (a few seemed trivial) there were others that stopped me cold. As a fan of Raymond Carver, I also appreciate his spare, direct language. I plan to read a lot more of Bukowski.

[Nad Gandia · Rating 3 out of 5]

´La ira
no es sino la máscara
que no cubre nada`



Esta antología de poemas, marcados por su influencia en otros escritores diría que es realmente la faceta más sincera de Bukowski. No sin caer del todo en la exageración de su realidad.
Una realidad directamente sin esperanza, llevada al fracaso y donde el fracaso es el eje central de la vida, sin embargo y es curioso del autor, achaca al éxito de muchos de sus relatos y de sus poemas a la simple casualidad, como quien pasa y se encuentra con alguien que realmente ni le viene ni le va. A pesar de ello, el carácter de sus poemas no tiene nada que envidiar al estilo también directo de Raymond Carver.

Los poemas y resumiendo, como bien dice el título El Padecimiento Continuo de quien no alberga más esperanza que la mera existencia.

`Ahora
las campanas
no doblan
mí

que
doblen
por ti.´

[Sanjuro · Rating 3 out of 5]

My relationship with Bukowski's writing is a strange one. On the one hand, I am continuously struck by how, despite his massive popularity, his writing is really quite dry and lifeless. And on the other hand, I constantly feel drawn to read more of it.

The poems themselves are hardly poetry, but for the fact that they so look like poetry. In fact, they look almost too much like poetry, as though Bukowski was looking to constantly exaggerate the form. But the language is as anti-poetic as it gets. Often he is simply rambling random thoughts he must have been having at the time, seldom all that insightful or illuminating, as though he had been drinking too much and sat down and scribbled some things in a notepad and sent it off to be published. Much of it is narrative, but without a clear point. Some quick lines about seeing a person walking and he noticed something strange, so it became a poem.

And yet, there is a sense in which this is precisely his charm. To most poets he is a "regular" guy, and yet to most regular people he would be quite strange. In the end, I would say I only like, maybe, 1 out of every 10 Bukowski poems I read - not a good percentage. Usually I would give up on a poet in those circumstances, and yet I keep reading Bukowski.

[Sydney · Rating 5 out of 5]

This book opened up the poetry world to me. I've never been interested in it, just because of the different ways you can interpret it. Then after reading if I had a conversation with someone about it and they have a different view, I feel cheated and wrong.

But upon reading this, I felt like that was okay. The way these poems and stories made me feel, it didn't matter anyone else's opinion.

[Frannie]

This is the first poetry book I've ever read completely.

Bukowski's writing is blunt and his poetry reads more like short stories. I really enjoy his writing style.

[Iris · Rating 3 out of 5]

[یک وضعیت همیشگی:
در تمام بالا و پایین خیابان‌ها
مردم درد میکشند
آنها با درد میخوابند
با درد از خواب بیدار میشوند
حتی ساختمان‌ها درد میکشند
پل‌ها،
گل‌ها درد میکشند.
و هیچ‌چیز قرار نیست آنها را، ما را، خلاص کند.
درد مینشیند، درد غوطه‌ور میشود، درد منتظر است، درد هست.]


[یه اجرای خوب لعنتی، برای یه استعداد متوسط.
در مورد فشردن همه‌ی آبِ میوه از یه لیموی کوچیک حرف میزنم.]


[گاهی اوقات فکر میکنم خدایان به عمد مرا
درون آتش هل میدهند.
تنها برای اینکه صدای ضجّه‌هایم را بشنوند.
بشنوند که چند جمله‌ی خوب فریاد میزنم.
آنها قرار نیست به من اجازه‌ی بازنشستگی بدهند]


[درحالیکه در بستر مرگ بود گفت: کسل کننده بود،
حوصله همه را سربردم، حتی حوصله خودم را.
هدرش دادم،
من یک آدم تقلبی، یک چرندگو... پر از وهم و خیال... پر از حقه بودم.]


[وقتی سی‌وپنج ساله بودم در بیمارستانِ عمومی داشتند من را مرده اعلام میکردند. نمردم. از بیمارستان مرخص شدم. به من گفتند اگر باز هم مشروب
بنوشم میمیرم؛ و اولین کاری که کردم رفتن به یک بار بود و نوشیدن یک
آبجو. نه، دوتا آبجو]


[آه خدای من
تمام آن آسمان آبی
بی‌معناست.]


[اون ترانه‌های غم‌انگیزِ سه دهه پیش رو نعره زدم
درحالیکه خودمو تو حموم حبس کرده بودم
چون که میدونستم به هیچ جایی تعلّق ندارم]

[Jon Cone · Rating 3 out of 5]

This isn't great Bukowski, but even mediocre Bukowski is worth looking at and he continues, even in death, to give substantial pleasures to those readers who are open to his brand of unadorned, plainspoken poetry. (Is it even poetry? Who cares.) If you are new to Bukowski or if you find yourself within the turmoil of an early Bukowski infatuation, you should skip this book for now: there are many other collections, especially from the early 70s, that provide the reader greater examples of Bukowski's distinctive furies. Combine those magnificent poetry collections with a few choice prose works (Post Office, Factotum. Ham On Rye), toss in volume one of his collected letters, and you have an incredible amount of writing that is breathtaking in scope, style and power. Bukowski was one of a kind, in spite of the legions who would imitate him in his wake, and it is hard to imagine another writer like him coming around anytime soon. Here's to you, Hank, wherever you are, with gods, women, symphonies, cats, the horses, the good boxing match, the bulls, Celine, and wine, sweet sweet wine.

[Kacey · Rating 3 out of 5]

Actual rating more like 3.5 stars. Good of course but not as impressed as I was with his other works.

"contentment between agonies is the elixir of existence."

[Zidane Abdollahi · Rating 4 out of 5]

وضعیت همیشگی

در تمام بالا و پایین خیابان‌ها
مردم درد می‌کشند
آن‌ها با درد می‌خوابند
با درد از خواب بیدار می‌شوند
حتی ساختمان‌ها درد می‌کشند
پل‌ها،
گل‌ها درد می‌کشند.
و هیچ‌چیز قرار نیست آن‌ها را، ما را خلاص کند.
درد می‌نشیند، درد غوطه‌ور می‌شود، درد منتظر است، درد هست.
موسیقی بد است، همینطور عشق و نمایش‌نامه
در اینجا
همان‌طور که من این نوشته را تایپ می‌کنم
یا آنجا
همان‌طور که تو آن را می‌خوانی.

[ken · Rating 2 out of 5]

so if you want to send me to an early hell
then force me to spend an entire day at Disneyland
(“Let’s Have Some Fun”)

but in all things
the ideal is a gentle
consistency.
(“Never”)

nothing good for me can be
done
unless i do it
alone
(“Heavy Dogs in Cement Shoes”)

[Castles · Rating 4 out of 5]

It’s been a long while since I’ve read a Bukowski and I was really surprised to read his special way with words, his coherence, short and to the point but deep. Even though famously melancholic, full of delicate moments too.

[Grace Swindler · Rating 3 out of 5]

Hmm.. we’ll I started the book with the assumption I wouldn’t love it, but with the knowledge that I needed to understand why men fuss over Bukowski. It was fine. The simplicity of some of the poems evoked great emotion, whereas others were plain boring. Love the cover!

[maité · Rating 2 out of 5]

⭐️⭐️ 2.5 / 5

« si podemos reír, reímos.
y si tenemos que llorar, tenemos
que llorar. »

[Tuck · Rating 3 out of 5]

2.5 but i liked this one for its true-to-life
the strange morning

it had never happened before and one doesn’t
know why such things
happen.


it was about 11 a.m. and I had stepped
outside the bar for some air.
Danny walked up and I started talking
to Danny.
then Harry walked up and joined us.

then two other men started talking
to each other a few feet away.

“let’s go back for a drink,” I said to
Danny and Harry.

“no, it’s nice out here,: said Danny,
“let’s gab a while.”

so we did.

then I noticed some other men
standing about.
some were talking, others were
just standing there.

it all happened slowly.

more and more men arrived
and stood
at the corner.

it was getting crowed.
and it was getting
humorous.

There was something
strange in the air,
you could feel it.

there were many voices
now.
and more men arrived.
I don’t know where they
all came from.

they stood around
talking,
laughing,
and smoking
cigarettes.

Jim the bartender stuck
his head out the door
and asked,
“hey, what the hell’s
going on out here?”

somebody laughed.

Jim went back inside to
the empty bar.

it began to feel very
odd

as if the world had
decided to be transformed,
all at once.

There was a feeling of
joy and gamble in
The air.

I believe that everybody
felt it.

A great energy was
let loose and working
on everything.

Then Jack the cop
walked up.
“hey, you guys,
break it up!
what the hell is going
on?”

we all knew Jack,
we drank with him
at night.

soon Jack was standing there,
talking and listening
to the others.

Danny grinned, “Jesus,
this is very strange.”

“I like it,” I said.

the whole corner was
crowed with
humanity
finally cut loose and
free,
laughing.

cars stopped and the
drivers looked out
wondering what was
happening.
we didn’t
know.

finally I said,
“I can’t stand this
anymore, I’m going in
for a drink.”

Danny and Harry
followed me
in.

Soon a few others
followed.

“lot of guys out there,”
said the bartender.

“yeah,” said harry.

“where are the
women?”

“the women don’t
want anything to do
with bums
like us.”
said Danny.

we each had a couple
of drinks.
Ii took maybe 15 or
20 minutes.

then I went to the
door and looked
out.
everybody was
gone.

I came back and
sat down.

“wonder where they
went?”

“strangest morning of
my life,” said
Danny.

“yeah,” said
Harry.

We sat there thinking
about it.
then Danny started
talking about how his
family was going to
throw him out for
not getting
a job, etc.

Jim the bartender
stood there polishing
glasses
and things were back
to normal,
even to wondering
who was going to
buy the next
round.

Bukowski “the continual condition”

[John Defrog: global citizen, local gadfly · Rating 4 out of 5]

I’ve been a fan of Bukowski for decades, but for some reason I’ve always been a bit wary of his posthumous books – there’s always the worry that unpublished works won’t measure up. Which is silly, I know. And this collection (which is a mix of unpublished poems and previously published but never anthologized poems) proves it. Here, Bukowski covers all the usual bases – drinking, horse racing, crazy women, low-lifes, writing, misanthropy, alienation, loneliness, the perils of success, wry humor – to the point where I’m amazed that he was able to cover the same ground for 50 years and still make it seem fresh. That said, not everything here works, but even average Bukowski is better than the best work of many, and there are a number of real gems that shine through here. When he nails it, he nails it hard. It’s been ages since the last time I read Bukowski – it was a pleasure to read him again.

[May-Ling · Rating 2 out of 5]

2.5 stars

I know it makes no sense to start with this book of his poetry, and so perhaps that is not quite fair. but sometimes a book jacket grabs me at the library and so I find myself here.

there's something compelling about the poems - their concise and hard hitting nature. I will always be a fan of brevity in writing. and yet I have trouble ignoring my feminist and objective orientation. how many times can I read him talk about whores and converse with his wife(?) in a dismissive way and not get annoyed by it? it's certainly a collection for a certain time in history and readers who are not me.

[James Goertel · Rating 5 out of 5]

I had not read Bukowski in some time after reading him intensively for years - he is a Rosetta Stone for me in terms of my introduction to poetry. He showed me not what poetry was, but what it could be. This collection stands up with the best of what I have read by Charles Henry Bukowski. Most striking are the poems scattered here and there which reference his mortality. "Moving Toward Age 73" and "Bayonets in Candlelight" are stunners.

[Cathleen · Rating 3 out of 5]

I knew Bukowski was a macho asshole when I bought this collection. I bought and read it anyway. There are some gems here, though, mostly the poems dealing with a mortal's grudging acceptance of the ticking of the clock and his regrets and triumphs in the face of that. I wonder if he'd cringe at some of the poems published here, which perhaps aren't ones he would have wanted public. Definitely a mixed bag.

[monika · Rating 3 out of 5]

teď je to všude samej kompjútr
a zanedlouho bude mít každej svůj vlastní
i tříletý děcka budou mít počítače
a všichni budou o všech
všechno vědět
dřív než je potkají
takže proč by se s nimi setkávali.
nikdo se s nikým nebude chtít
už nikdy vidět
a ze všech budou
samotáři
tak jako já.

[E.J. Cullen · Rating 3 out of 5]

Bukowski has what only the best writers have: Voice. What he's missing is range and felicity, but it goes to show that, in literature, a true and unique Voice keeps us reading and ultimately trumps all else.

[Reuben · Rating 5 out of 5]

I've never been a fan of poetry, but damn. I might be now.