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Tales of Ordinary Madness
Exceptional stories that came pounding out of Bukowski's violent and depraved life. Horrible and holy, you cannot read them and ever come away the same again.
With Bukowski, the votes are still coming in. There seems to be no middle ground—people seem either to love him or hate him. Tales of his own life and doings are as wild and weird as the very stories he writes. In a sense, Bukowski was a legend in his time: a madman, a recluse, a lover; tender, vicious; never the same.
From prostitutes to classical music, Bukowski ingeniously mixes high and low culture in his "tales of ordinary madness." These stories are humorous and haunting, angry yet tender portrayals of life in the underbelly of Los Angeles.
With Bukowski, the votes are still coming in. There seems to be no middle ground—people seem either to love him or hate him. Tales of his own life and doings are as wild and weird as the very stories he writes. In a sense, Bukowski was a legend in his time: a madman, a recluse, a lover; tender, vicious; never the same.
From prostitutes to classical music, Bukowski ingeniously mixes high and low culture in his "tales of ordinary madness." These stories are humorous and haunting, angry yet tender portrayals of life in the underbelly of Los Angeles.
238 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1983
1804 people are currently reading
25927 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.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 1,413 reviews
March 3, 2007
i was first introduced to this book in the bathroom of a one-night-stand's house. i tried to delay the sex part, because i was actually more interested in the book than the guy but i was eventually overtaken. nonetheless, i went and bought the book the following week.
February 16, 2025
Every story in this collection wants to make you drink yourself silly, run away from home or quit your job. Bukowski has just one story. That of the outcast who is an alcoholic involved in some menial job struggling with his sexual frustrations and instinctive living.
There are takedowns of mediocre poets like Shakespere. There is great criticism of Norman Mailer - "God, he just writes on and on. There's no force, no humor. I don't understand it. Just a pushing out of the word, any word, anything ....."
And this great quote - "Doldrums of mechanical people in a mechanical act trying to tickle their cement souls back into life." That pretty much nails everything that is wrong with most books, music, movies and activism today.
(Goodreads deleted my old review. I wrote the above from memory.)
There are takedowns of mediocre poets like Shakespere. There is great criticism of Norman Mailer - "God, he just writes on and on. There's no force, no humor. I don't understand it. Just a pushing out of the word, any word, anything ....."
And this great quote - "Doldrums of mechanical people in a mechanical act trying to tickle their cement souls back into life." That pretty much nails everything that is wrong with most books, music, movies and activism today.
(Goodreads deleted my old review. I wrote the above from memory.)
February 11, 2021
DNF on page 80.
I’ve read half of these stories now, and they’re all more or less the same.
They focus on an alcoholic main character, either returning from prison or doing something that will inevitably send him back to prison.
I will say this truly is ‘dirty realism’. The character makes rape jokes, he is sexist and violent. He is depicted well in the sense that I despised him. It’s also highly realistic as there are types of people like this in the world, which is frightening, but true.
I’m still giving a star rating as like I said I’ve read about 10 of these stories and I feel that’s enough to formulate an opinion. It’s not a bad book but I couldn’t stomach it anymore so I’m leaving it here.
I’ve read half of these stories now, and they’re all more or less the same.
They focus on an alcoholic main character, either returning from prison or doing something that will inevitably send him back to prison.
I will say this truly is ‘dirty realism’. The character makes rape jokes, he is sexist and violent. He is depicted well in the sense that I despised him. It’s also highly realistic as there are types of people like this in the world, which is frightening, but true.
I’m still giving a star rating as like I said I’ve read about 10 of these stories and I feel that’s enough to formulate an opinion. It’s not a bad book but I couldn’t stomach it anymore so I’m leaving it here.
January 14, 2014
I simply love Bukowski. He belonged to a world I dont quite understand and he disliked people on such a high level - it confuses me. He describes a universe, where all things are wrong and where meaning of going on seems as dubious as the claim that one can come out of this life still being sane.
And yet, there are too many familiarities in what Bukowski says. I can sympathise to what he is saying or rather, what he seems to be feeling. Though the source of his impressions is different from mine, I think, in many ways, it leads us to the same destination. Or such is the feeling Bukowski leaves his reader with anyway.
And the speech, the pauses, the choice of words. All these things just so happen to fall into the right places so that they can speak directly to the reader, so that the reader would be finally able to understand what is wrong with this world and that, really, none of us will leave from here alive. Better kick back with a beer or two.
And yet, there are too many familiarities in what Bukowski says. I can sympathise to what he is saying or rather, what he seems to be feeling. Though the source of his impressions is different from mine, I think, in many ways, it leads us to the same destination. Or such is the feeling Bukowski leaves his reader with anyway.
And the speech, the pauses, the choice of words. All these things just so happen to fall into the right places so that they can speak directly to the reader, so that the reader would be finally able to understand what is wrong with this world and that, really, none of us will leave from here alive. Better kick back with a beer or two.
August 9, 2025
Ben Gazzara
https://youtu.be/upL99XQ5_jQ
Style is the answer to everything,
A fresh way to approach a dull or dangerous thing,
To do a dull thing with style is preferable to doing a dangerous thing without it,
To do a dangerous thing with style is what I call art.
Bullfighting can be an art,
Boxing can be an art,
Loving can be an art,
Opening a can of sardines can be an art.
Not many have style.
Not many can keep style.
I have seen dogs with more style than men,
although not many dogs have style.
Cats have it with abundance.
When Hemingway put his brains to the wall with a shotgun,
that was style.
Or sometimes people give you style
Joan of Arc had style,
John the Baptist,
Christ,
Socrates,
Caesar,
García Lorca
I have met men in jail with style.
I have met more men in jail with style than men out of jail.
Style is the difference, a way of doing, a way of being done.
Six herons standing quietly in a pool of water,
or you walking out of the bathroom, naked, without seeing me.
https://youtu.be/upL99XQ5_jQ
Style is the answer to everything,
A fresh way to approach a dull or dangerous thing,
To do a dull thing with style is preferable to doing a dangerous thing without it,
To do a dangerous thing with style is what I call art.
Bullfighting can be an art,
Boxing can be an art,
Loving can be an art,
Opening a can of sardines can be an art.
Not many have style.
Not many can keep style.
I have seen dogs with more style than men,
although not many dogs have style.
Cats have it with abundance.
When Hemingway put his brains to the wall with a shotgun,
that was style.
Or sometimes people give you style
Joan of Arc had style,
John the Baptist,
Christ,
Socrates,
Caesar,
García Lorca
I have met men in jail with style.
I have met more men in jail with style than men out of jail.
Style is the difference, a way of doing, a way of being done.
Six herons standing quietly in a pool of water,
or you walking out of the bathroom, naked, without seeing me.
August 5, 2022
I shouldn't be dropping a bombshell here by stating that I am partial to some Bukowski, as really, it's fairly old news. After reading and entirely loving Post Office a few years back, I was hoping and I suppose I was expecting to feel the same about this book.
Tales of Ordinary Madness is very different to other Bukowski I've read and enjoyed. I felt like this was written in haste, and much of it was put down in order to startle someone that isn't used to Bukowski's style. I've said it before, he's like marmite, you either love him or you hate him.
Various breasts, the female sex and vomit were in my face in nearly every chapter, and although this didn't shock or upset me, I feel that if there isn't a story to connect these things together, except maybe a rushed bit of dialogue that makes little sense, then these things are entirely irrelevant. I craved plot. Even just a smidgen.
The style was also more difficult to appreciate, due to the lack of punctuation and capitalization. Obviously this was done purposely, but for me, I felt like It needed a complete and swift editing job.
There is some hope to be found here, though. I do recognise Bukowski for all that he was, which was a drunk in reality, and he's probably not a person you'd enjoy taking for a coffee, but apart from that, he was always brutally honest about life, including the highs and lows that come as standard with it. I can appreciate that he really didn't care what another person thought of him or his choices. He lived his life as he saw fit, mostly wanting to be left to his own devices, and all of the time giving the conformists the middle finger.
Even though I didn't love this, I sincerely hope that I enjoy my next Bukowski more.
Tales of Ordinary Madness is very different to other Bukowski I've read and enjoyed. I felt like this was written in haste, and much of it was put down in order to startle someone that isn't used to Bukowski's style. I've said it before, he's like marmite, you either love him or you hate him.
Various breasts, the female sex and vomit were in my face in nearly every chapter, and although this didn't shock or upset me, I feel that if there isn't a story to connect these things together, except maybe a rushed bit of dialogue that makes little sense, then these things are entirely irrelevant. I craved plot. Even just a smidgen.
The style was also more difficult to appreciate, due to the lack of punctuation and capitalization. Obviously this was done purposely, but for me, I felt like It needed a complete and swift editing job.
There is some hope to be found here, though. I do recognise Bukowski for all that he was, which was a drunk in reality, and he's probably not a person you'd enjoy taking for a coffee, but apart from that, he was always brutally honest about life, including the highs and lows that come as standard with it. I can appreciate that he really didn't care what another person thought of him or his choices. He lived his life as he saw fit, mostly wanting to be left to his own devices, and all of the time giving the conformists the middle finger.
Even though I didn't love this, I sincerely hope that I enjoy my next Bukowski more.
March 10, 2019
Even though I am a big fan of Bukowski's novels I think his Strength was definitely in short stories and this collection has got everything you would come to expect from the master of low life literature, from the booze, women, cheap cigars and poetry reading to the drunken outbursts, lewd behaviour, betting on the horses and dead end jobs it's all there, and if I could choose any drinking buddy dead or alive there is no contest (I can almost picture the scene now with me probably waking up in the gutter!), and with so many memorable lines one of my favourites was just simply,
"Vera," I said
"What?" She asked
"I am the world's greatest poet," I told her
"living or dead?" She asked
"dead," I said.
Classic Bukowski!
"Vera," I said
"What?" She asked
"I am the world's greatest poet," I told her
"living or dead?" She asked
"dead," I said.
Classic Bukowski!
Read
August 2, 2023This was one of those rare books that made me laugh out loud, with my heart; and yet behind these funny moments a grim reality was lurking underneath.
The first time I saw Bukowski's photo, for a moment I thought he was the prolific Greek poet Yannis Ritsos and then I realised he was not. But beside the beard and the long wavy hair and their prolific writing careers they don't seem to share anything else.
Ritsos is more lyrical more benign in his writing.
Bukowski is more straightforward, with an in-yer-face rawness.
I first learnt (spring 2015) more about Bukowski as a poet and writer through a few documentaries and videos I saw of him on YouTube and from reading about him online.
Two and a half years later I stumble upon this book of short stories at a thrift shop and I said It's about time I read something by him
I realised that this is some classic Bukowski by just reading the info on the back cover stating that the tales of this volume were originally collected together with more stories in a single volume entitled Erections, Ejaculations, Exhibitions and General Tales of Ordinary Madness
... Thus, I dived in ...
At the beginning I was a bit annoyed by his (characters') attitude towards women but as the stories became more and more autobiographical I started enjoying them more.
Bukowski isn't hiding behind his words, he isn't using beautifying descriptions for things that can't be said, he isn't afraid to say what he feels.
He is honest, filthy, misanthropic, has an acid pen and caustic humour, criticises everything from American life to Anna Karenina. He is Charles Bukowski.
So, I won't say more about this book but I will leave you with a random extract that illustrates pretty well what I said about his writing:
The first time I saw Bukowski's photo, for a moment I thought he was the prolific Greek poet Yannis Ritsos and then I realised he was not. But beside the beard and the long wavy hair and their prolific writing careers they don't seem to share anything else.
Ritsos is more lyrical more benign in his writing.
Bukowski is more straightforward, with an in-yer-face rawness.
I first learnt (spring 2015) more about Bukowski as a poet and writer through a few documentaries and videos I saw of him on YouTube and from reading about him online.
Two and a half years later I stumble upon this book of short stories at a thrift shop and I said It's about time I read something by him
I realised that this is some classic Bukowski by just reading the info on the back cover stating that the tales of this volume were originally collected together with more stories in a single volume entitled Erections, Ejaculations, Exhibitions and General Tales of Ordinary Madness
... Thus, I dived in ...
At the beginning I was a bit annoyed by his (characters') attitude towards women but as the stories became more and more autobiographical I started enjoying them more.
Bukowski isn't hiding behind his words, he isn't using beautifying descriptions for things that can't be said, he isn't afraid to say what he feels.
He is honest, filthy, misanthropic, has an acid pen and caustic humour, criticises everything from American life to Anna Karenina. He is Charles Bukowski.
So, I won't say more about this book but I will leave you with a random extract that illustrates pretty well what I said about his writing:
Bukowski hates Santa Claus. Bukowski makes deformed figures out of typewriter erasers. when water drips, Bukowski cries. when Bukowski cries, water drips. o sanctums of fountains, o scrotums, o fountaining scrotums, o man's great ugliness everywhere like that fresh dogturd that the morning shoe did not see again; o, the mighty police, o the mighty weapons, o the mighty dictators, o the mighty damn fools everywhere, o the lonely lonely octopus, o the clock-tick seeping each neat one of us balanced and unbalanced and holy and constipated, o the bums lying in alleys of misery in a golden world, o the children to become ugly, o the ugly to become uglier, o the sadness of sabres and the closing of the walls - no Santa Claus, no Pussy, no Magic Wand, no Cinderella,p.152
no Great Minds Ever, kukoo - just shit and the whipping of dogs and children, just shit and the wiping away of shit; just doctors without patients just clouds without rain just days without days,
o god o mighty that you put this upon us.
January 12, 2018
Χωρις πολλα λογια, Μπουκοφσκι σε μεγαλα κεφια.ενα απο τα καλυτερα βιβλια του που εχω διαβασει με απολαυστικα διηγηματα, γεματα απο ολα αυτα τα στοιχεια που τον χαρακτηριζουν..
May 17, 2021
This book effectively sucked my soul out & demolished my will to live
April 28, 2022
For me, reading Bukowski is like driving by the site of a huge traffic accident where a flatbed semi loaded with overflowing port-a-potties just plowed into a church bus filled with aging, syphilitic prostitutes on their way to confession—you want to see it but you don’t want to see it, but you do.
Bukowski calls these short stories “fiction” but then his chief protagonist is named ‘Charles Bukowski’ so you start to think this is more autobiographical—and then he populates these vignettes with hot, sexy women who are all clamoring to sleep with ‘Charles Bukowski’—and that’s how you know, yeah, it’s fictional after all.
It’s so hard to describe how this collection of short stories made me feel. I’m saying 90% of this [stuff] is completely repulsive—we’re talking a snot pie filled with ball sweat and beans—but every once in a while there’s a tiny glimpse of recognizable decency and honesty… and then it jumps right back to ball sweat and beans.
Bukowski calls these short stories “fiction” but then his chief protagonist is named ‘Charles Bukowski’ so you start to think this is more autobiographical—and then he populates these vignettes with hot, sexy women who are all clamoring to sleep with ‘Charles Bukowski’—and that’s how you know, yeah, it’s fictional after all.
It’s so hard to describe how this collection of short stories made me feel. I’m saying 90% of this [stuff] is completely repulsive—we’re talking a snot pie filled with ball sweat and beans—but every once in a while there’s a tiny glimpse of recognizable decency and honesty… and then it jumps right back to ball sweat and beans.
May 25, 2021
Eu nu m-am regăsit deloc în scriitura lui Charles Bukowski, din cauza limbajului vulgar. Atât de vulgar! Înțeleg perfect că tocmai stilul trivial îl diferențiază și îi conferă acea notă de autenticitate pentru care este atât de apreciat de unii, notă care este unealta perfectă pentru a descrie mizeria din lume și din sufletul oamenilor, doar că pe mine m-a pierdut când am citit dialogul de mai jos, dintre o fetiță și tatăl ei, iar de-acolo mi s-a blocat mintea.
,,- de ce are păr nuca de cocos?
- of, Doamne, habar n-am. eu de ce am păr pe coa*e?"
Deși am terminat cu greu toate povestirile și mi-a luat vreo două luni, am descoperit o mulțime de imagini puternice și realiste, care pun serios pe gânduri cititorul. Din loc în loc, am dat și peste fragmente în care m-am regăsit, deși nici nu mă așteptam. Apreciez cadrul general al scriiturii lui, dar aș vrea să întâlnesc aceste elemente fără să îmi sară în față atâtea organe genitale. Îmi lăcrimează ochii... În articol am copiat integral una dintre povestiri, în caz că vreți să vă faceți o idee. Recenzia aici: https://bit.ly/3fMRamf.
,,[...] trebuie să mă țin și eu de nevrozele și prejudecățile mele, fiindcă asta e tot ce am.''
,,- de ce are păr nuca de cocos?
- of, Doamne, habar n-am. eu de ce am păr pe coa*e?"
Deși am terminat cu greu toate povestirile și mi-a luat vreo două luni, am descoperit o mulțime de imagini puternice și realiste, care pun serios pe gânduri cititorul. Din loc în loc, am dat și peste fragmente în care m-am regăsit, deși nici nu mă așteptam. Apreciez cadrul general al scriiturii lui, dar aș vrea să întâlnesc aceste elemente fără să îmi sară în față atâtea organe genitale. Îmi lăcrimează ochii... În articol am copiat integral una dintre povestiri, în caz că vreți să vă faceți o idee. Recenzia aici: https://bit.ly/3fMRamf.
,,[...] trebuie să mă țin și eu de nevrozele și prejudecățile mele, fiindcă asta e tot ce am.''
April 1, 2008
This was my introduction to Bukowski. A friend loaned me this book after reading a short story I wrote, telling me that I would probably enjoy it.
As I read it, a strange feeling came over me. It was the feeling of excitement knowing that I was reading something brilliant mixed with the feeling that I got when I saw Hustler Magazine for the first time. I think it describes Bukowski's work perfectly. His words are both beautiful and debauched at the same time. Still one of my favorite books.
As I read it, a strange feeling came over me. It was the feeling of excitement knowing that I was reading something brilliant mixed with the feeling that I got when I saw Hustler Magazine for the first time. I think it describes Bukowski's work perfectly. His words are both beautiful and debauched at the same time. Still one of my favorite books.
February 12, 2018
I couldn't get into this book. I really liked Post Office but this one left me cold. I felt that the quality was patchy - a few of the stories I really liked, but some appeared to me to be dashed off at speed or written just to shock.
November 26, 2024
Madness -- Ordinary And Otherwise
At certain times in my life, when I feel blue or lonely or otherwise in a funk, I turn to the writings of the American writer Charles Bukowski, (1920 - 1994), the perennial outsider and outcast. Sometimes they help, but sometimes they simply reinforce a mood. "Tales of Ordinary Madness", a volume of short stories, did something of both. This collection of 34 short stories and vignettes is tough, raw, crude, and violent. It startled me, even though I have familiarity with Bukowski's novels and poetry and with the short stories collected in the book "South of No North." The "ordinary madness" stories are by the same hand and explore the same themes, but Bukowski's other books did not fully prepare me for them.
The book was part of a longer collection of stories published in 1972 which, in 1982, was split up and made into two collections. The stories were originally published in magazines, including adult magazines, and newspapers, although the specifics remain unmentioned in this volume. In addition, these stories were not published by John Martin and Black Sparrow Press, Bukowski's usual publisher, but by City Lights Books. A movie titled "Tales of Ordinary Madness" directed by Italy's Marco Ferrerri and based upon some of the stories in this and the companion volume appeared in 1981.
Most of Bukowski's other works are written in short, simple, mostly clear sentences. Not so with these stories. Bukowski writes at times in a stream-of-consciousness, "spontaneous prose" style. The sentences go on and on, full of ranting and raving. The story lines as well frequently wander off in a variety of directions making them difficult to follow.
Set in the skid rows of Los Angeles, these stories are extreme. They have a claustrophobic, jarring feel. The stories are set in jails, institutions, rooming houses, the poor streets, the racetrack. The characters are mad and tormented, but recognizable. The word "ordinary" in the title suggests that life frequently has the character displayed in these stories, perhaps in varying guises, regardless of location, education, or economic class. The stories are full of violence, crude sex, excretions, alcohol and drugs, crime, alienation, and death. Some of the stories are more overtly philosophical that Bukowski's other writings, as the stories discuss for many pages Bukowski's thoughts on literature and poetry.
Many of the stories are autobiographical with the primary character identified as "Charles Bukowski." One story uses a Bukowski stand-in named Dan Skorski. Henry Chinaski does not appear in these tales. Several of the stories include tender moments especially as they relate to the Bukowski character's relationship with his young daughter. A number of stories describe Bukowski's experiences in reading his poetry at universities, while one story recounts how Bukowski was found ineligible for the military service in WW II. Some of the better stories in this collection describe Bukowski's experiences at the racetrack. These stories of horse racing, betting, and the frequenters of the sport have a freshness to them and a feeling of first hand experience. An assortment of losers, loners, and drifters frequent these stories. Oddly, several of these stories include as a character a young rabbinical student, said to be an admirer of the author's writing. Many of the stories, and scenes in the stories, are garish and lurid. It would be no shame to be uncomfortable with them.
This is a mixed collection, as in typical with Bukowski, including much tough good material together with considerable sections that are disturbing or just bad. It is a book for moods and moments, not for everyone and not every day fare. Readers fascinated with Bukowski should read it.
Robin Friedman
At certain times in my life, when I feel blue or lonely or otherwise in a funk, I turn to the writings of the American writer Charles Bukowski, (1920 - 1994), the perennial outsider and outcast. Sometimes they help, but sometimes they simply reinforce a mood. "Tales of Ordinary Madness", a volume of short stories, did something of both. This collection of 34 short stories and vignettes is tough, raw, crude, and violent. It startled me, even though I have familiarity with Bukowski's novels and poetry and with the short stories collected in the book "South of No North." The "ordinary madness" stories are by the same hand and explore the same themes, but Bukowski's other books did not fully prepare me for them.
The book was part of a longer collection of stories published in 1972 which, in 1982, was split up and made into two collections. The stories were originally published in magazines, including adult magazines, and newspapers, although the specifics remain unmentioned in this volume. In addition, these stories were not published by John Martin and Black Sparrow Press, Bukowski's usual publisher, but by City Lights Books. A movie titled "Tales of Ordinary Madness" directed by Italy's Marco Ferrerri and based upon some of the stories in this and the companion volume appeared in 1981.
Most of Bukowski's other works are written in short, simple, mostly clear sentences. Not so with these stories. Bukowski writes at times in a stream-of-consciousness, "spontaneous prose" style. The sentences go on and on, full of ranting and raving. The story lines as well frequently wander off in a variety of directions making them difficult to follow.
Set in the skid rows of Los Angeles, these stories are extreme. They have a claustrophobic, jarring feel. The stories are set in jails, institutions, rooming houses, the poor streets, the racetrack. The characters are mad and tormented, but recognizable. The word "ordinary" in the title suggests that life frequently has the character displayed in these stories, perhaps in varying guises, regardless of location, education, or economic class. The stories are full of violence, crude sex, excretions, alcohol and drugs, crime, alienation, and death. Some of the stories are more overtly philosophical that Bukowski's other writings, as the stories discuss for many pages Bukowski's thoughts on literature and poetry.
Many of the stories are autobiographical with the primary character identified as "Charles Bukowski." One story uses a Bukowski stand-in named Dan Skorski. Henry Chinaski does not appear in these tales. Several of the stories include tender moments especially as they relate to the Bukowski character's relationship with his young daughter. A number of stories describe Bukowski's experiences in reading his poetry at universities, while one story recounts how Bukowski was found ineligible for the military service in WW II. Some of the better stories in this collection describe Bukowski's experiences at the racetrack. These stories of horse racing, betting, and the frequenters of the sport have a freshness to them and a feeling of first hand experience. An assortment of losers, loners, and drifters frequent these stories. Oddly, several of these stories include as a character a young rabbinical student, said to be an admirer of the author's writing. Many of the stories, and scenes in the stories, are garish and lurid. It would be no shame to be uncomfortable with them.
This is a mixed collection, as in typical with Bukowski, including much tough good material together with considerable sections that are disturbing or just bad. It is a book for moods and moments, not for everyone and not every day fare. Readers fascinated with Bukowski should read it.
Robin Friedman
April 12, 2015
I lost this book when I was about 50 pages from the end. I think I might have left it in the gym - which is probably some sort of Bukowskian sin.
I'll read those last pages one day, but I knew from half way in that this was a five star book. I love Bukowski. I love his tales of ordinary madness. Though, of course, the madness isn't ordinary because Bukowski wasn't like most people.
He drinks his way through the book, offending the world around him, offending himself...it reads like a bewildered kid trying to figure out why he has suddenly been let out of a cupboard, and instead of the punch in the face he was expecting to receive, he instead gets applause from a world of strangers.
Some people don't like Bukowski, but part of his beauty is he doesn't want you to like him. He doesn't care about the reader. He wrote because without writing he might have simply been a monster. But his words made him a genius.
His honesty, in a literary world crammed with vampires in love and all sorts of bestselling ideas that get published and make me want to puke, is something I often revisit to remind myself why I love writing. He feels like, to me, the last of the old days.
If you don't get him, that's fine. But Bukowski has to be respected.
He's one of the all time very best.
I'll read those last pages one day, but I knew from half way in that this was a five star book. I love Bukowski. I love his tales of ordinary madness. Though, of course, the madness isn't ordinary because Bukowski wasn't like most people.
He drinks his way through the book, offending the world around him, offending himself...it reads like a bewildered kid trying to figure out why he has suddenly been let out of a cupboard, and instead of the punch in the face he was expecting to receive, he instead gets applause from a world of strangers.
Some people don't like Bukowski, but part of his beauty is he doesn't want you to like him. He doesn't care about the reader. He wrote because without writing he might have simply been a monster. But his words made him a genius.
His honesty, in a literary world crammed with vampires in love and all sorts of bestselling ideas that get published and make me want to puke, is something I often revisit to remind myself why I love writing. He feels like, to me, the last of the old days.
If you don't get him, that's fine. But Bukowski has to be respected.
He's one of the all time very best.
February 27, 2018
Como antología de relatos, los hay mejores y los hay peores. Pero los buenos brillan mucho.
September 22, 2021
Oscuro y cínico. Bukowski nos demuestra en este trabajo la crudeza de la realidad vista a través de los ojos de la indiferencia y lo que podríamos llamar "ente perverso". Cargadísimo de un surrealismo que se acomoda muy bien a los estados de consumo de alcohol y sustancias, relato tras relato te ves inmerso en una serie de acontecimientos que parten de la realidad y se distorsionan en la mente del protagonista que es repetidas ocasiones es el mismo Bukowski u otros que personifican la apatía de un mundo en donde la tragedia diaria se vuelve una ironía viviente. Me recuerda muchísimo a ese magnífico video de Radiohead de Paranoid Android en donde el morbo, el sinsentido, la introspección, la decadencia social y lo irreal se mezclan en un perfecto coctel que primero te excita, luego te emborracha y por ultimo saca todas las tripas en un violento vómito de sensaciones rodeadas de lo oscuro de los relatos. Aquí podemos presenciar desde la introspección de un bebedor compulsivo hasta los pensamientos mas íntimos de un violador infantil. Desde el descaro del mas imperturbable de un vividor gigoló hasta el genuino enamoramiento de un méndigo desahuciado. Desde lo morboso hasta lo mundano. En definitiva, desde lo real hasta lo filosófico y en ello no hay grandes discursos ni pasajes memorables, solo las vivencias de cínicos borrachos y desenfrenados sexuales que bien podrían ser tus vecinos.
Gran libro escrito por un mas gran aun Bukowski que comprendía que el arte de escribir, al final de las cuentas es un ejercicio de documentación del alma y de las tristes realidades que en ella reside. no hay un final feliz, no hay un aprendizaje, no hay mundo mejor, solo la descarnada concientización de lo que ocurre allá afuera, en ese penumbroso mundo de cemento y hierro envejecido y de cloacas sulfurosas. Mi Relato preferido? por mucho fue "Animales hasta en la sopa" con un hilo argumental perfecto de un protagonista que no tiene nada (ni el ánimo de vivir) y que lo encuentra todo en lo que cualquiera de nosotros tacharía como "locura extrema". Relato muy sentimental repleto de reflexiones humanistas de un corte exquisitamente crudo.
Sin duda el super poder de Charles era la creación de personajes tremendamente realistas que saben jugar bien en el terreno de lo absurdo y que te mantienen atrapado en sus relatos semifantásticos entre lo surreal, lo político, lo mundano, lo sentimental, lo banal y lo grotesco.
Bastante recomendado, aunque debo advertir que no deja de ser un poco pesado para algunos gustos (no para mí, por supuesto)
Gran libro escrito por un mas gran aun Bukowski que comprendía que el arte de escribir, al final de las cuentas es un ejercicio de documentación del alma y de las tristes realidades que en ella reside. no hay un final feliz, no hay un aprendizaje, no hay mundo mejor, solo la descarnada concientización de lo que ocurre allá afuera, en ese penumbroso mundo de cemento y hierro envejecido y de cloacas sulfurosas. Mi Relato preferido? por mucho fue "Animales hasta en la sopa" con un hilo argumental perfecto de un protagonista que no tiene nada (ni el ánimo de vivir) y que lo encuentra todo en lo que cualquiera de nosotros tacharía como "locura extrema". Relato muy sentimental repleto de reflexiones humanistas de un corte exquisitamente crudo.
Sin duda el super poder de Charles era la creación de personajes tremendamente realistas que saben jugar bien en el terreno de lo absurdo y que te mantienen atrapado en sus relatos semifantásticos entre lo surreal, lo político, lo mundano, lo sentimental, lo banal y lo grotesco.
Bastante recomendado, aunque debo advertir que no deja de ser un poco pesado para algunos gustos (no para mí, por supuesto)
February 2, 2025
El libro "Storie di ordinaria follia" es parte de una colección de Charles Bukowski. Son muchas historias cortas y fueron publicadas por primera vez en 1972. Se trata de una narrativa estadounidense típica de los años treinta.
Los borradores están escritos casi exclusivamente en clave autobiográfica. El libro incluye cerca sesenta historias que oscilan entre: alcohol, mujeres, sexo, carreras de caballos, la
vida salvaje del mismo con cincuenta años sin trabajo fijo.
Los relatos del libro se condensan con diferentes personas. Casualmente o por voluntad, en todos los libros del autor entre los personajes hay uso continuo del cuerpo hembra.
Leer un libro de Charles Bukowski o leer una docena no hace mucha diferencia. Sus historias pueden también destacarse entre sí pero el círculo vicioso del autor sigue siendo el alcol y el sexo. O cuando el tema del sexo es diferente es porque en esta hipótesis particular los hombres pueden convertirse en víctimas de las mujeres: hombre explotado por dinero, o quizás solo por fama. Sin embargo, hay también ocasiones más agradables donde se busca al hombre solo para momentos de placer.
En cierto sentido los personajes de Bukowski quisieran representar el preámbulo de la población estadounidense después de la crisis del 29: personas que para acomodarse a ese período oscuro intentaron dar lo mejor que pudieron. Aunque si luego la misma población no encontró mucho espacio en el resurgimiento de la sociedad estadounidense.
Después de todo los cuentos del libro siguen siendo historias de ignorancia. Charles Bukowski frente otros escritores es asiduamente superficial. El período de su referencia debió ser floreciente y compensó los textos con la agregación de: prostitutas; vagabundos; clochards y tal vez hombres comunes. En fin, lo que es más evidente fue que Charles Bukowski añadió hombres inútiles que de alguna manera intentaron ganar el día para gastarse el dinero largo la noche.
Los borradores están escritos casi exclusivamente en clave autobiográfica. El libro incluye cerca sesenta historias que oscilan entre: alcohol, mujeres, sexo, carreras de caballos, la
vida salvaje del mismo con cincuenta años sin trabajo fijo.
Los relatos del libro se condensan con diferentes personas. Casualmente o por voluntad, en todos los libros del autor entre los personajes hay uso continuo del cuerpo hembra.
Leer un libro de Charles Bukowski o leer una docena no hace mucha diferencia. Sus historias pueden también destacarse entre sí pero el círculo vicioso del autor sigue siendo el alcol y el sexo. O cuando el tema del sexo es diferente es porque en esta hipótesis particular los hombres pueden convertirse en víctimas de las mujeres: hombre explotado por dinero, o quizás solo por fama. Sin embargo, hay también ocasiones más agradables donde se busca al hombre solo para momentos de placer.
En cierto sentido los personajes de Bukowski quisieran representar el preámbulo de la población estadounidense después de la crisis del 29: personas que para acomodarse a ese período oscuro intentaron dar lo mejor que pudieron. Aunque si luego la misma población no encontró mucho espacio en el resurgimiento de la sociedad estadounidense.
Después de todo los cuentos del libro siguen siendo historias de ignorancia. Charles Bukowski frente otros escritores es asiduamente superficial. El período de su referencia debió ser floreciente y compensó los textos con la agregación de: prostitutas; vagabundos; clochards y tal vez hombres comunes. En fin, lo que es más evidente fue que Charles Bukowski añadió hombres inútiles que de alguna manera intentaron ganar el día para gastarse el dinero largo la noche.
December 26, 2017
i learned that even the most obstruct, vile, deepest tretches of a mans soul based on views of things you and i avoid yet confront reluctantly in our evryday lifes can be depicted as art.i began eating away at this book as a way to pass time while sittingg in a texas county jail. i had no idea what i was getting my self into, let alone who the fuck charles bukowski was. but it opened my eyes to the true beauty some beat poets have to offer.the way he includes himself into his stories of other men that keep you in a constant state of confusion as to whether he is talking about himself, another, or speaking through mere hypothetical situations he created to render himself clear of the ravished ambitions he once called his own. that being said i believe that buk incorperates himself (by using false names) into situations where he acts and speaks the way most of us amricans wish we could in the most average of situations we always seem to find ourselves in. by no means am i proud to say i can relate to this poet and frankly i could have happily gone along with the sad story written by some arrogant masicistic being they call god whom is the author to my life with out ever running into this sonofabitches book, but as freud said there are no accidents. (forgive me fo being so cliche) that being said i still to this day find my self craving (as i do all things that are bad for me) more of the incredibly enlightening yet disturbing literature written by charles bukowski.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
July 11, 2018
"I walked around the block twice, passed 200 people and failed to see a human being."
"This birth thing. And this death thing. Each one had it's turn. We entered alone and we left alone. And most of us lived lonely and frightened and incomplete lives. An incomparable sadness descended up on me. Seeing all that life that must die. Seeing all that life that would first turn to hate, to dementia, to neuroses, to stupidity, to fear, to murder, to nothing - nothing in life and nothing in death."
"Living was easy – all you had to do was let go. And have a little money. Let the other men fight the wars, let the other men go to jail."
"The human race had always disgusted me. Essentially, what made them disgusting was the family-relationship illness, which included marriage, exchange of power and aid, which like a sore, a leprosy, became then: your next door neighbor, your neighborhood, your district, your city, your country, your state, your nation…everybody grabbing each other’s assholes in the honeycomb of survival out of a fear-animalistic stupidity."
"This birth thing. And this death thing. Each one had it's turn. We entered alone and we left alone. And most of us lived lonely and frightened and incomplete lives. An incomparable sadness descended up on me. Seeing all that life that must die. Seeing all that life that would first turn to hate, to dementia, to neuroses, to stupidity, to fear, to murder, to nothing - nothing in life and nothing in death."
"Living was easy – all you had to do was let go. And have a little money. Let the other men fight the wars, let the other men go to jail."
"The human race had always disgusted me. Essentially, what made them disgusting was the family-relationship illness, which included marriage, exchange of power and aid, which like a sore, a leprosy, became then: your next door neighbor, your neighborhood, your district, your city, your country, your state, your nation…everybody grabbing each other’s assholes in the honeycomb of survival out of a fear-animalistic stupidity."
March 29, 2015
Bukowski, Bukowski...
even though this guy uses mostly the same topics on his books there is something about it that draws me again and again and again to it like I'm addicted. And I have to say in terms of exposing his mind and philosophizing about various topics this book for me it's the one that is most well written (among the ones I have read so far of course).
I've underlined some quotes and lines of thought that I want to add to the quotes here later.
There is a lot of talk about the race track of course (one of my least favorite Bukowski themes);
beautiful and caring thoughts on his daughter (as I said before it is really to this person that he puts all his love and energy at, because the other people are for him, just other people, as it seems);
love the thoughts on hallucinogenics and weed. Weed for Bukowski is a phony drug and how he explains why is just fucking funny;
there is a weird story about a girl that owned a zoo;
I loved the one about his dreams and how he dreams about trying to sleep in his room exactly how it was before (I used to have this so many times it was insane);
The Zen marriage is a very very good one;
I never knew that Bukowski was in a looney bin before (even though it's perfectly plausible);
This title: Cunt and Kant and a Happy home - genius!
I'm sure if I'll read my underlined quotes I'll come up with more.
even though this guy uses mostly the same topics on his books there is something about it that draws me again and again and again to it like I'm addicted. And I have to say in terms of exposing his mind and philosophizing about various topics this book for me it's the one that is most well written (among the ones I have read so far of course).
I've underlined some quotes and lines of thought that I want to add to the quotes here later.
There is a lot of talk about the race track of course (one of my least favorite Bukowski themes);
beautiful and caring thoughts on his daughter (as I said before it is really to this person that he puts all his love and energy at, because the other people are for him, just other people, as it seems);
love the thoughts on hallucinogenics and weed. Weed for Bukowski is a phony drug and how he explains why is just fucking funny;
there is a weird story about a girl that owned a zoo;
I loved the one about his dreams and how he dreams about trying to sleep in his room exactly how it was before (I used to have this so many times it was insane);
The Zen marriage is a very very good one;
I never knew that Bukowski was in a looney bin before (even though it's perfectly plausible);
This title: Cunt and Kant and a Happy home - genius!
I'm sure if I'll read my underlined quotes I'll come up with more.
July 17, 2008
I was looking for something new (to me) in the early 90's and some dweeb in a Brentano's recommended this to me because Bukowski has died months before. I hate discovering something great just after the author has died. I also hate people saying how great some author (or artist) was after they die, but they never had much to say while the author was still alive.
Anyway, this is one of his two greatest novels.
Anyway, this is one of his two greatest novels.
June 26, 2015
Muy pocos relatos me gustaron de este libro. No obstante, volveré a intentarlo con este autor.
August 7, 2017
Il libro è costituito da racconti che descrivono, con una scrittura forzatamente volgare, la vita di Charles Bukowski. Dai racconti emerge uno scrittore sempre senza soldi, che pensa solamente ad andare all'ippodromo, ad ubriacarsi e al sesso in tutte le sue forme. Questi "argomenti" sono esposti in modo ripetitivo, prevedibile ed anche, talvolta, disgustoso. Bukowski non si fa scrupoli nel raccontarci come fa sesso (in tutti i modi ed in ogni momento), come si ubriaca (sempre), come si svuota l'intestino (peggio di una mucca...), come dorme (in continuazione), come vive alla giornata. Tutte cose che dopo poche (proprio poche) pagine iniziano ad annoiare a morte.
I personaggi che descrive sono persone qualunque trovate tra gli strati più bassi della società, disperati che giocano ai cavalli perdendo lavoro e famiglia, ubriaconi, prostitute. E li descrive molto bene sapendo di appartenere a quella società, sapendo di essere esattamente come le persone che descrive. Non critica, Bukowski. Non si compiace dello squallore che vede. Si limita a registrare le follie, spesso senza senso, delle persone che incontra.
Sforzandosi un po' di capire cosa stia dietro l'apparenza (oscena, sconclusionata, alcolica e anche sgrammaticata), si nota una certa ironia di fondo, una visione delle cose cupa e pessimistica, un voler mostrare ogni aspetto misero della vita per quello che è, senza possibilità di riscatto. Sembra che Bukowski disprezzi profondamente questa società, che non ascolta o non si interessa dei problemi e delle necessità dei singoli.
Ci sono parecchie frasi molto profonde, disperse nel testo.
" Tante volte uno deve lottare così duramente per la vita che non ha tempo di viverla"
"Il codardo è uno che prevede il futuro. Il coraggioso è privo d'ogni immaginazione"
"Diventa bravo in qualsiasi campo, e ti crei subito dei nemici. I campioni vengono innalzati affinché la folla provi poi maggior gusto a vederli rotolare, battuti, fra la merda, e goda a subissarli di fischi."
Purtroppo non ho terminato il libro (e di solito finisco pure le pagine gialle, se le inizio...), nonostante fossi partito bene, perché la caccia al tesoro di queste chicche non mi interessava più. Neppure nei fumetti di "Lando il montatore" che da ragazzino trovavo dal barbiere si trovavano dei dialoghi così basici, così ripetitivi e quindi così noiosi.
Non conoscevo questo autore e devo dire che è riuscito abbastanza a stupirmi. Purtroppo, nel complesso, mi ha stupito negativamente, in quanto nel libro ho visto solo tanta tristezza, negatività e pessimismo in una cornice ripetitiva e stancante.
I personaggi che descrive sono persone qualunque trovate tra gli strati più bassi della società, disperati che giocano ai cavalli perdendo lavoro e famiglia, ubriaconi, prostitute. E li descrive molto bene sapendo di appartenere a quella società, sapendo di essere esattamente come le persone che descrive. Non critica, Bukowski. Non si compiace dello squallore che vede. Si limita a registrare le follie, spesso senza senso, delle persone che incontra.
Sforzandosi un po' di capire cosa stia dietro l'apparenza (oscena, sconclusionata, alcolica e anche sgrammaticata), si nota una certa ironia di fondo, una visione delle cose cupa e pessimistica, un voler mostrare ogni aspetto misero della vita per quello che è, senza possibilità di riscatto. Sembra che Bukowski disprezzi profondamente questa società, che non ascolta o non si interessa dei problemi e delle necessità dei singoli.
Ci sono parecchie frasi molto profonde, disperse nel testo.
" Tante volte uno deve lottare così duramente per la vita che non ha tempo di viverla"
"Il codardo è uno che prevede il futuro. Il coraggioso è privo d'ogni immaginazione"
"Diventa bravo in qualsiasi campo, e ti crei subito dei nemici. I campioni vengono innalzati affinché la folla provi poi maggior gusto a vederli rotolare, battuti, fra la merda, e goda a subissarli di fischi."
Purtroppo non ho terminato il libro (e di solito finisco pure le pagine gialle, se le inizio...), nonostante fossi partito bene, perché la caccia al tesoro di queste chicche non mi interessava più. Neppure nei fumetti di "Lando il montatore" che da ragazzino trovavo dal barbiere si trovavano dei dialoghi così basici, così ripetitivi e quindi così noiosi.
Non conoscevo questo autore e devo dire che è riuscito abbastanza a stupirmi. Purtroppo, nel complesso, mi ha stupito negativamente, in quanto nel libro ho visto solo tanta tristezza, negatività e pessimismo in una cornice ripetitiva e stancante.
February 2, 2018
Forse un genio , forse un barbone
Difficile a dirsi .
Di sicuro uno che scrive di se stesso e beve (sempre) troppo.
Una scrittura diretta , rude , sgrammaticata (o è la traduzione? boh!)
a volte "sconcia" , che riesce a farti respirare a fondo il tanfo dell'alcool e dello squallore e dell'emarginazione e della solitudine...
anche se non mancano sprazzi di poesia.
Il libro inizia con questo racconto:La piú bella donna della città
Cass era la piú giovane e la piú bella di 5 sorelle. Cass era la piú bella ragazza di tutta la città. Mezzindiana, aveva un corpo stranamente flessuoso, focoso era e come di serpe, con due occhi che proprio ci dicevano. Cass era fuoco fluido in movimento. Era come uno spirito incastrato in una forma che però non riusciva a contenerlo. I capelli neri e lunghi, i capelli di seta, si muovevano ondeggiando e vorticando come il corpo volteggiava. Lo spirito, o alle stelle o giú ai calcagni. Non c'era via di mezzo, per Cass. C'era anche chi diceva ch'era pazza. Gli imbecilli lo dicevano.
Gli scemi non potevano capirla. Agli uomini in genere Cass pareva una macchina da fottere, e quindi non gliene fregava niente, fosse o non fosse pazza. E Cass ballava e civettava, si lasciava baciare dagli uomini, ma, tranne qualche rara volta, quando si stava per venire al dunque, com'è come non è, Cass si eclissava, Cass aveva eluso gli uomini.
Le sorelle l'accusavano di sprecare la sua bellezza, di non fare buon uso del cervello. Ma Cass ne aveva da vendere, di cervello e di spirito. Dipingeva, danzava, cantava, modellava la creta, e quando qualcuno era ferito, mortificato, nel corpo o nell'anima, Cass provava compassione per costui.
Il suo cervello era, ecco, differente; la sua mentalità non era pratica, ecco quanto.
E poi ,tra cosce , sbronze , rabbie , amarezze e follie , trovi racconti come
"Sei pollici" "Animali in libertà" e infine "La coperta" e...
Al Diavolo, vecchio pazzo di un Bukowski
allora forse non sei solo erezioni eiaculazioni ed esibizioni !?
Forse.
3 stelline e mezzo
sì, perchè mezza stellina l'ho proprio dovuta togliere,
per quella parola- orrenda - di 5 lettere che inizia per s e finisce per a
ripetuta ogni 3 per 2 :)
Difficile a dirsi .
Di sicuro uno che scrive di se stesso e beve (sempre) troppo.
Una scrittura diretta , rude , sgrammaticata (o è la traduzione? boh!)
a volte "sconcia" , che riesce a farti respirare a fondo il tanfo dell'alcool e dello squallore e dell'emarginazione e della solitudine...
anche se non mancano sprazzi di poesia.
Il libro inizia con questo racconto:La piú bella donna della città
Cass era la piú giovane e la piú bella di 5 sorelle. Cass era la piú bella ragazza di tutta la città. Mezzindiana, aveva un corpo stranamente flessuoso, focoso era e come di serpe, con due occhi che proprio ci dicevano. Cass era fuoco fluido in movimento. Era come uno spirito incastrato in una forma che però non riusciva a contenerlo. I capelli neri e lunghi, i capelli di seta, si muovevano ondeggiando e vorticando come il corpo volteggiava. Lo spirito, o alle stelle o giú ai calcagni. Non c'era via di mezzo, per Cass. C'era anche chi diceva ch'era pazza. Gli imbecilli lo dicevano.
Gli scemi non potevano capirla. Agli uomini in genere Cass pareva una macchina da fottere, e quindi non gliene fregava niente, fosse o non fosse pazza. E Cass ballava e civettava, si lasciava baciare dagli uomini, ma, tranne qualche rara volta, quando si stava per venire al dunque, com'è come non è, Cass si eclissava, Cass aveva eluso gli uomini.
Le sorelle l'accusavano di sprecare la sua bellezza, di non fare buon uso del cervello. Ma Cass ne aveva da vendere, di cervello e di spirito. Dipingeva, danzava, cantava, modellava la creta, e quando qualcuno era ferito, mortificato, nel corpo o nell'anima, Cass provava compassione per costui.
Il suo cervello era, ecco, differente; la sua mentalità non era pratica, ecco quanto.
E poi ,tra cosce , sbronze , rabbie , amarezze e follie , trovi racconti come
"Sei pollici" "Animali in libertà" e infine "La coperta" e...
Al Diavolo, vecchio pazzo di un Bukowski
allora forse non sei solo erezioni eiaculazioni ed esibizioni !?
Forse.
3 stelline e mezzo
sì, perchè mezza stellina l'ho proprio dovuta togliere,
per quella parola- orrenda - di 5 lettere che inizia per s e finisce per a
ripetuta ogni 3 per 2 :)
September 10, 2024
Vulgar și cinic, depășit de
conflictele interioare, Bukowski ne face cunoștință cu o lume proprie, dominată de dezordine și rutină, poveștile lui nu sunt banale, sunt inspirate din realitatea imediată, jalnică, fiecare povestirea din carte ascunde un conflict existențialist cu propria individualitate sau cu lumea de jur, de neînțeles pentru un scriitor cu abilități de supra-om dar condamnat rutinei, spleen-lui zilnic.
Bukowski nu înțelege de ce a nimerit într-un loc nepotrivit, destinat haosului și morții lente a spiritului; băutura îl salvează din multe belele dar îl și domină, Bukowski nu este niciodată mulțumit de viața sa, este un estet prin dezordinea pe care și-o creează, toate povestirile ascund un neobișnuit adevăr dar și un dor nespus de evadare, dar unde să fugi?
Peste tot este același prezent susceptibil, Bukowski pune la îndoială orice gând de fericire și adoră mizeria proprie în care a decăzut...
Certat mereu de părinți, cu fața plină de acnee în adolescență, fără nici un prieten fidel, scriitorul devansează, se luptă cu mânia și frustarea unei lumi pe care nu și-a dorit-o niciodată, cu un caracter îndoielnic, alter-egoul lui Bukowski-Henry Chinaski luptă mereu singur, cu arme albe sau cu propriile mâini.
Am admirat întotdeuna caracterul versatil și neobișnuit a lui Charles Bukowsi, un element vorace care mă scoate din obișnuită mea conduită literară.
conflictele interioare, Bukowski ne face cunoștință cu o lume proprie, dominată de dezordine și rutină, poveștile lui nu sunt banale, sunt inspirate din realitatea imediată, jalnică, fiecare povestirea din carte ascunde un conflict existențialist cu propria individualitate sau cu lumea de jur, de neînțeles pentru un scriitor cu abilități de supra-om dar condamnat rutinei, spleen-lui zilnic.
Bukowski nu înțelege de ce a nimerit într-un loc nepotrivit, destinat haosului și morții lente a spiritului; băutura îl salvează din multe belele dar îl și domină, Bukowski nu este niciodată mulțumit de viața sa, este un estet prin dezordinea pe care și-o creează, toate povestirile ascund un neobișnuit adevăr dar și un dor nespus de evadare, dar unde să fugi?
Peste tot este același prezent susceptibil, Bukowski pune la îndoială orice gând de fericire și adoră mizeria proprie în care a decăzut...
Certat mereu de părinți, cu fața plină de acnee în adolescență, fără nici un prieten fidel, scriitorul devansează, se luptă cu mânia și frustarea unei lumi pe care nu și-a dorit-o niciodată, cu un caracter îndoielnic, alter-egoul lui Bukowski-Henry Chinaski luptă mereu singur, cu arme albe sau cu propriile mâini.
Am admirat întotdeuna caracterul versatil și neobișnuit a lui Charles Bukowsi, un element vorace care mă scoate din obișnuită mea conduită literară.
July 25, 2019
La máquina de follar consta de 22 relatos, ante tal cantidad, es lógico que unos relatos gusten más que otros. Bukowski no tiene límites y en ocasiones deja en evidencia la peor cara del ser humano, sin que le tiemble la mano, por lo que algunos relatos se deben leer con mucho criterio.
Los protagonistas de sus historias son muy variados, en ocasiones es Henry Chinaski (álter ego de Bukowski), en otras el mismo Bukowski y otros tipos que van perdidos por la vida. Pero da igual el nombre que lleve la caricatura, siempre es Bukowski.
Como siempre utiliza su experiencia en la calle para inventarse historias, mezcla la realidad con la ficción. Parte de una situación típica de sus vagabundeos y borracheras, para luego tomar caminos delirantes, fantásticos y miserables.
Como siempre detrás de su fachada de desapego con la vida y odio por la sociedad, se esconde un alma humana llena de preguntas existencialistas, por lo mismo, es fácil encontrar reflexiones sobre la vida en cada párrafo, pero siempre acompañada de alguna situación en la que no puedes parar de reír. Nada se lo toma en serio, ni siquiera el amor.
Reseña completa en el blog: https://eligeunlibro.blogspot.com/201...
Los protagonistas de sus historias son muy variados, en ocasiones es Henry Chinaski (álter ego de Bukowski), en otras el mismo Bukowski y otros tipos que van perdidos por la vida. Pero da igual el nombre que lleve la caricatura, siempre es Bukowski.
Como siempre utiliza su experiencia en la calle para inventarse historias, mezcla la realidad con la ficción. Parte de una situación típica de sus vagabundeos y borracheras, para luego tomar caminos delirantes, fantásticos y miserables.
Como siempre detrás de su fachada de desapego con la vida y odio por la sociedad, se esconde un alma humana llena de preguntas existencialistas, por lo mismo, es fácil encontrar reflexiones sobre la vida en cada párrafo, pero siempre acompañada de alguna situación en la que no puedes parar de reír. Nada se lo toma en serio, ni siquiera el amor.
Reseña completa en el blog: https://eligeunlibro.blogspot.com/201...
May 2, 2022
Someone who doesn’t have ‘context’ to Bukowski’s state of mind will find this a complete waste of time. More and more of the same crudeness and extremity. But the content perfectly reflects the title.
If you can forgive Elfriede Jelinek for Lust then this is similar. I am not comparing them but the intent of the firehose that hits you when you read such books.
It’s on and on and on ….
If you can forgive Elfriede Jelinek for Lust then this is similar. I am not comparing them but the intent of the firehose that hits you when you read such books.
It’s on and on and on ….
November 28, 2008
once upon a time, in a shitshack bookstore not unlike so many other shitshack bookstores, a life-long love was forged. employed at this store was a strapping young lad named chris. bright-eyed. bushy-tailed. boneheaded. and enamored with the wealth of books surrounding him. he was perplexed as where to even begin looking for the good stuff, and he’d often scour the place after business hours. labyrinthine shelves. stocked endcaps. free-standing or pop-up displays. a pile of books here and there some moron set down so he could scratch his ass. despite the countless volumes present, chris had hope. and why not, our friend was endowed with a 30% discount, and a penis often favorably compared to the neck of a brontosaurus.
the job itself was a rotten sham. a seasonal gig. it paid a few gracious cents more than the current minimum wage. a career path to absolutely nowhere. worse yet, he couldn’t seem to find anything that tickled his fancy while stalking about. until, one day, after a hectic holiday shopping spree, our stalwart hero was restoring normalcy to his store’s wares in the aftermath of the havoc perpetrated by the yuletime shoppers. the droves of mindless cretins had certainly kicked the store’s ass that day, in pursuit of their wise investments. chris had seen what they were buying while jockeying the register, generally weak shit. Jackie Collins. Clive Cussler. self-help and new age mumbo-jumbo. some presumably-lame shit called “Primary Colors” which was absolutely flying off the shelves that year. sales of voodoo spells and autoerotic asphyxiation were lagging, symptons of a relatviely strong economy. due to the general chaos, chris was left to rearrange to the demanding satisfaction of his taskmaster, todd. this nimrod wielded his pitiful authority like a broadsword. todd read fantasy books by the baker’s dozen. todd’s social skills were what you’d expect of leprous eunuch. todd always had some crusty, white deposits disgustingly accentuating the corners of his thin, weird lips. todd probably diddled himself in the office under the auspices of making the nightly deposit. some deposit. chris endured this chump’s whims in order to continue collecting his unimpressive wages, but that doesn’t mean he was happy. it might even be safe to say that chris was hella pissed off. but better pissed off than pissed on, or so he’d been told.
it’s impossible to pinpoint exactly what act of buffoonery caused the ensuing chance encounter to occur. this much is certain: chris was ‘facing’ one of the shelves sporting the works of authors with surnames beginning with “B”. part of this duty was restocking books on the shelf which had wandered off in the course of the day. books he’d collected canvassing the shop for shit laying around. books which had literally grown legs and gone for a stroll. or books which some clod had brought to the counter, realized they’d never jerk off to, and decided against actually purchasing it. either way, these fuckers weren’t going to put themselves back in alphabetical order. the books, that is. that’s what chris was being paid for. perhaps he was in the act of restoring a copy of Dandelion Wine to its rightful place after discovering it abandoned in the ‘sports’ section. or he could have been returning Don Quixote to its accepted spot in the literary chain of existence from its careless exile near the magazine racks. but a wise man with a dollar to wager might be best betting that poor chris was fucking something up. say foolishly trying to cram a movie-tie-in copy of Burrough’s Naked Lunch to the ‘fiction’ section. seems reasonable. not quite. store policy strictly mandated that at least one copy of each m.t.i. rightfully belonged on the crappy little ‘entertainment’ island, and chris was erroneously placing this where he felt it was best represented instead. whatever foolishness occurred, it was a blessing, in hindsight. it set into motion the forthcoming life-affirming infatuation.
not far from the scene on the numbskullery, having repaired the misappropriation of whichever volume, chris surveyed some of the nearby titles. one leaped out at his ignorant, adolescent ass, Tales of Ordinary Madness by Charles Bukowski. This sounded promising, chris thought. he knew a little something about madness, he was snapping mad this particular evening, hell, he was extraordinarily mad, and probably figured he could do with toning it down a notch, to plain, Ordinary Madness. already impressed, his initial reaction was confirmed by the cover photo. a grizzled, smoking pollack. solid. plus, a testimonial on the back by some crappy offbeat publisher (at this age chris knew this sort of company published all the significant material) affirming that “people seem to either love him or hate him.” The accolades went on to promise “tales of [Bukowski’s:] own life doings are as wild and weird as the very stories he writes…exceptional stories that come pounding out of his violent and depraved life". chris was immediately sold. he set this treasure aside, although removing this book now created a little wiggle room on the shelf. but nothing big enough to attempt fucking. chris moved on. upon completion of his menial responsibilities, he sauntered up to todd and made use of his employee discount (unfortunately, he couldn’t find a way to also utilize that appallingly-large appendage as well at the time).
over the next few days, chris repeatedly burst into juvenile hysterics over Bukowski’s crude wit. this shit was priceless. he cracked up with each mention of uncontrollable vomiting. chris exploded with glee at each knee-slapper concerning cocks. admired the disregard this badass had his for liver, the police, and his myriad whores. foul language and dirty thoughts, culminating in stories alternately ridiculous and astounding. but it would be insulting to say that the book only satisfied on these lowbrow levels, more importantly, chris had a thematic appreciation for this clever shit. the revelation in failure promoted by bukowski. haughty contempt for society and their phony and puerile pop culture. Buke’s obviously-unrecognized genius was apparent, as in many stories he toiled fruitlessly as some workaday goon, and chris was sadly comforted when this noble malcontent spoke of the futility of trying to stay sane in an already fucked-up world. sure, he still nearly pissed himself as Buke recounted episodes of scrubbing pigeon shit, miserable sexcapades, and uncontrollable puking, but this might have been the first book that actually spoke to chris as a person. a few stories here and there missed the mark, but chris reasoned he may simply be too young to associate with these, perhaps he’d have to live, and love, and spectacularly fail in order to fully appreciate the few stories which didn’t captivate. he reassured himself this was probably the case, his own lifestyle wasn’t to far removed from Buke’s, he’d come to that understanding some day. hell, chris figured if he could imagine his future-self putting anything to paper, it would probably look quite similar. he looked at the degenerate on the cover again; not a comforting thought.
as chris got older (one cannot claim he grew up) he eventually worked his way through almost everything he could locate by his depraved hero. save for the poetry. and full-length stories. this suited him just fine. he was never a fan of poetry to begin with. for some reason suspected Bukowski’s novels would blow, as his love of the stories was dictated by their brief, kick-in-the-nuts approach. besides, it seemed quite unlikely anyone could continue being that funny and asinine for over a hundred consecutive pages. chris still thought that this shit was hilarious, perhaps the printed panacea for a dismal day.
and now, a decrepit, old pollack himself, chris has to admit that he still likes the Bukester, albeit quite a bit less than he used to. of the 30+ stories within Tales of Ordinary Madness, chris really only thought that 10 of them were really A-list material during this recent reading. not only was this disturbing in that this count was down from 16 just a few years ago, but there wasn’t a single B-list or below that he’d come to appreciate in age. perhaps there really isn’t anything deeper in these stories; mayhap all they can serve as is a quick, shock-value fix to get you sniggering. sure, at times it’s a bit depresseing that some stories read as though buke is fighting with all his might to maintain the self-image he’s perpetuated all these years: some poor fool unable to adapt or simply to stubborn to grow up. it might be even more soul-destroying that chris, and quite possibly many of you, can still relate.
but, fuck it. this shit is still hilarious.
Personal favorites: The Great Zen Wedding, Goodbye Watson, My Stay in the Poet’s Cottage, Rape! Rape!, No Stockings, and The Blanket.
the job itself was a rotten sham. a seasonal gig. it paid a few gracious cents more than the current minimum wage. a career path to absolutely nowhere. worse yet, he couldn’t seem to find anything that tickled his fancy while stalking about. until, one day, after a hectic holiday shopping spree, our stalwart hero was restoring normalcy to his store’s wares in the aftermath of the havoc perpetrated by the yuletime shoppers. the droves of mindless cretins had certainly kicked the store’s ass that day, in pursuit of their wise investments. chris had seen what they were buying while jockeying the register, generally weak shit. Jackie Collins. Clive Cussler. self-help and new age mumbo-jumbo. some presumably-lame shit called “Primary Colors” which was absolutely flying off the shelves that year. sales of voodoo spells and autoerotic asphyxiation were lagging, symptons of a relatviely strong economy. due to the general chaos, chris was left to rearrange to the demanding satisfaction of his taskmaster, todd. this nimrod wielded his pitiful authority like a broadsword. todd read fantasy books by the baker’s dozen. todd’s social skills were what you’d expect of leprous eunuch. todd always had some crusty, white deposits disgustingly accentuating the corners of his thin, weird lips. todd probably diddled himself in the office under the auspices of making the nightly deposit. some deposit. chris endured this chump’s whims in order to continue collecting his unimpressive wages, but that doesn’t mean he was happy. it might even be safe to say that chris was hella pissed off. but better pissed off than pissed on, or so he’d been told.
it’s impossible to pinpoint exactly what act of buffoonery caused the ensuing chance encounter to occur. this much is certain: chris was ‘facing’ one of the shelves sporting the works of authors with surnames beginning with “B”. part of this duty was restocking books on the shelf which had wandered off in the course of the day. books he’d collected canvassing the shop for shit laying around. books which had literally grown legs and gone for a stroll. or books which some clod had brought to the counter, realized they’d never jerk off to, and decided against actually purchasing it. either way, these fuckers weren’t going to put themselves back in alphabetical order. the books, that is. that’s what chris was being paid for. perhaps he was in the act of restoring a copy of Dandelion Wine to its rightful place after discovering it abandoned in the ‘sports’ section. or he could have been returning Don Quixote to its accepted spot in the literary chain of existence from its careless exile near the magazine racks. but a wise man with a dollar to wager might be best betting that poor chris was fucking something up. say foolishly trying to cram a movie-tie-in copy of Burrough’s Naked Lunch to the ‘fiction’ section. seems reasonable. not quite. store policy strictly mandated that at least one copy of each m.t.i. rightfully belonged on the crappy little ‘entertainment’ island, and chris was erroneously placing this where he felt it was best represented instead. whatever foolishness occurred, it was a blessing, in hindsight. it set into motion the forthcoming life-affirming infatuation.
not far from the scene on the numbskullery, having repaired the misappropriation of whichever volume, chris surveyed some of the nearby titles. one leaped out at his ignorant, adolescent ass, Tales of Ordinary Madness by Charles Bukowski. This sounded promising, chris thought. he knew a little something about madness, he was snapping mad this particular evening, hell, he was extraordinarily mad, and probably figured he could do with toning it down a notch, to plain, Ordinary Madness. already impressed, his initial reaction was confirmed by the cover photo. a grizzled, smoking pollack. solid. plus, a testimonial on the back by some crappy offbeat publisher (at this age chris knew this sort of company published all the significant material) affirming that “people seem to either love him or hate him.” The accolades went on to promise “tales of [Bukowski’s:] own life doings are as wild and weird as the very stories he writes…exceptional stories that come pounding out of his violent and depraved life". chris was immediately sold. he set this treasure aside, although removing this book now created a little wiggle room on the shelf. but nothing big enough to attempt fucking. chris moved on. upon completion of his menial responsibilities, he sauntered up to todd and made use of his employee discount (unfortunately, he couldn’t find a way to also utilize that appallingly-large appendage as well at the time).
over the next few days, chris repeatedly burst into juvenile hysterics over Bukowski’s crude wit. this shit was priceless. he cracked up with each mention of uncontrollable vomiting. chris exploded with glee at each knee-slapper concerning cocks. admired the disregard this badass had his for liver, the police, and his myriad whores. foul language and dirty thoughts, culminating in stories alternately ridiculous and astounding. but it would be insulting to say that the book only satisfied on these lowbrow levels, more importantly, chris had a thematic appreciation for this clever shit. the revelation in failure promoted by bukowski. haughty contempt for society and their phony and puerile pop culture. Buke’s obviously-unrecognized genius was apparent, as in many stories he toiled fruitlessly as some workaday goon, and chris was sadly comforted when this noble malcontent spoke of the futility of trying to stay sane in an already fucked-up world. sure, he still nearly pissed himself as Buke recounted episodes of scrubbing pigeon shit, miserable sexcapades, and uncontrollable puking, but this might have been the first book that actually spoke to chris as a person. a few stories here and there missed the mark, but chris reasoned he may simply be too young to associate with these, perhaps he’d have to live, and love, and spectacularly fail in order to fully appreciate the few stories which didn’t captivate. he reassured himself this was probably the case, his own lifestyle wasn’t to far removed from Buke’s, he’d come to that understanding some day. hell, chris figured if he could imagine his future-self putting anything to paper, it would probably look quite similar. he looked at the degenerate on the cover again; not a comforting thought.
as chris got older (one cannot claim he grew up) he eventually worked his way through almost everything he could locate by his depraved hero. save for the poetry. and full-length stories. this suited him just fine. he was never a fan of poetry to begin with. for some reason suspected Bukowski’s novels would blow, as his love of the stories was dictated by their brief, kick-in-the-nuts approach. besides, it seemed quite unlikely anyone could continue being that funny and asinine for over a hundred consecutive pages. chris still thought that this shit was hilarious, perhaps the printed panacea for a dismal day.
and now, a decrepit, old pollack himself, chris has to admit that he still likes the Bukester, albeit quite a bit less than he used to. of the 30+ stories within Tales of Ordinary Madness, chris really only thought that 10 of them were really A-list material during this recent reading. not only was this disturbing in that this count was down from 16 just a few years ago, but there wasn’t a single B-list or below that he’d come to appreciate in age. perhaps there really isn’t anything deeper in these stories; mayhap all they can serve as is a quick, shock-value fix to get you sniggering. sure, at times it’s a bit depresseing that some stories read as though buke is fighting with all his might to maintain the self-image he’s perpetuated all these years: some poor fool unable to adapt or simply to stubborn to grow up. it might be even more soul-destroying that chris, and quite possibly many of you, can still relate.
but, fuck it. this shit is still hilarious.
Personal favorites: The Great Zen Wedding, Goodbye Watson, My Stay in the Poet’s Cottage, Rape! Rape!, No Stockings, and The Blanket.
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