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Hijo de Satanás
Charles Bukowski, la más impactante prosa de la indecente energía de la furia, el malhablado lenguaje de los bares y una exuberante impertinencia constituyen su voz experta en interrumpir la algarabía de «un mundo lleno de canciones de amor espantosas». Entre borrachos y suicidas, Bukowski ha conseguido que los miserables tengan su poeta y que la ironía sea capaz de derrotar a la peor de las tragedias. ¿No podría, entonces, llevarnos hasta el infierno y traernos sanos y salvos? Sanos, sí; a salvo, no. Y es que en este viaje, pleno en humor cruel y furia etílica, Bukowski despliega sus mejores artes de narrador despiadado para ofrecer una veintena de historias sarcásticas, explosivas y absolutamente inolvidables. Nadie sale ni el boxeador al que entre round y round le recomiendan tirarse, ni el escritor que va al hipódromo buscando una «acción» que lo arruina, ni el joven aburrido que lleva una prostituta a su casa, ni el actor que trata de escapar de la tiranía de la fama... Ni mucho menos, desde luego, el lector. Hijo de Satanás, «un triste, cómico y potente libro como jamás escribió este importante autor», según la revista View, implica un paseo electrizante por el paisaje de la decadencia. A través de ese camino, Charles Bukowski ofrece la llave para abrir las secretas puertas del infierno. El callejón está abierto, y las emociones, aseguradas.
208 pages, Mass Market Paperback
First published January 1, 1990
172 people are currently reading
2142 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 212 reviews
February 18, 2018
Many people complain about Bukowski. They think he is filled with "teenage angst" and was cool to read when in high school. But now, NOW these complainers of Buk have grown up and are respectable adults who wear the very same clothes they wore in high school, like the same music they liked in high school, have the same jobs they had in high school, do more drugs then they did in high school, drive shittier cars than they did in high school, express the same angst as in high school, and think Star Wars is an absolute masterpiece of art. You are all liars, you are all hypocrites, and you are all full of shit. There are not enough Sons of Anarchy, Game of Thrones to change the fact that your life is shitty and you have made no real progress nor will in your life. No TV show or latest zombie thing can change this fact that you have actually digressed from high school. All the ironic mustaches in the world won't change this fact. To degrade Buk in such a way is a sin! You are in a constant delusion to think you have moved beyond the person you once were, nothing is farther from the truth. You are just balder and fatter with more vintage clothes. Thinking Bukowski is a teenage read is like thinking Picasso is finger painting. These are the same people who think that Buk is misogynistic. I challenge anyone out there to find one poem, one excerpt of misogyny. It just doesn't exist.
These complaints are the same parroted complaints from the same shitty people. How do I know this? Because it's the only goddamn complaint I hear over and over again (teen angsty, misogynysticy, immaturey, high schooly, etc). I don't even think these people have read him, but just repeat complaints from other dildos who have not read him. At least if you are going to complain about him, be original!!...and at least read him.
Bukowski was a genius. I needed to read some to whet my whistle after so many snooze fest reads. This book is good, but definitely some repetition of stories and poems. But who cares, I dont mind re-reading his stuff...However, I do think there are only 5 original Bukowski books, and 30 reprints with clever new titles and story rearrangement so companies can try and squeeze more money out of his dead, decaying, bloated, alcohol fermented corpse. I was worried I was losing the urge to read with the shit I have been reading lately. Leave it to Bukowski to reinvigorate the joy of reading. It is like a tasty snack you pop in your mouth. A meal on the run, a short read of Buk can do so much. A break from a long read, a breath mint to clean the palette before reading more garbage. If you are ever down with shitty books, just pop a Bukowski to get you going again. Bukowski once said "don't be like so many thousands of people who call themselves writers, don't be dull and boring and pretentious, don't be consumed with self- love. the libraries of the world have yawned themselves to sleep over your kind."... True as it ever was, writers take a cue...Buk4Life...
Also, just have to mention his short stories and poems are always better than his novels...Just saying...
Quotes:
"Early evening traffic was beginning to clog the avenue with cars. The sun slanted down behind him. Harry glanced at the drivers of the cars. They seemed unhappy. The world was unhappy. People were in the dark. People were terrified and disappointed. People were caught in traps. People were defensive and frantic. They felt as if their lives were being wasted. And they were right."
"every person, I suppose, has their eccentricities but in an effort to be normal in the world's eye they overcome them and therefore destroy their special calling."
"Martin wiped himself, looked down, flushed it away, thinking, there's a very thin line between writing and excreting."
always "the important thing is the obvious thing that nobody is saying."
Poems & Stories:
Poems for the lost dogs
Vengence of the damned
the strongest of the strange
a wild, fresh wind blowing...
Bring me your love
the rape of the holy mother
No Love Songs
at the Sizzler
the orderly
the nurses
There's no business
These complaints are the same parroted complaints from the same shitty people. How do I know this? Because it's the only goddamn complaint I hear over and over again (teen angsty, misogynysticy, immaturey, high schooly, etc). I don't even think these people have read him, but just repeat complaints from other dildos who have not read him. At least if you are going to complain about him, be original!!...and at least read him.
Bukowski was a genius. I needed to read some to whet my whistle after so many snooze fest reads. This book is good, but definitely some repetition of stories and poems. But who cares, I dont mind re-reading his stuff...However, I do think there are only 5 original Bukowski books, and 30 reprints with clever new titles and story rearrangement so companies can try and squeeze more money out of his dead, decaying, bloated, alcohol fermented corpse. I was worried I was losing the urge to read with the shit I have been reading lately. Leave it to Bukowski to reinvigorate the joy of reading. It is like a tasty snack you pop in your mouth. A meal on the run, a short read of Buk can do so much. A break from a long read, a breath mint to clean the palette before reading more garbage. If you are ever down with shitty books, just pop a Bukowski to get you going again. Bukowski once said "don't be like so many thousands of people who call themselves writers, don't be dull and boring and pretentious, don't be consumed with self- love. the libraries of the world have yawned themselves to sleep over your kind."... True as it ever was, writers take a cue...Buk4Life...
Also, just have to mention his short stories and poems are always better than his novels...Just saying...
Quotes:
"Early evening traffic was beginning to clog the avenue with cars. The sun slanted down behind him. Harry glanced at the drivers of the cars. They seemed unhappy. The world was unhappy. People were in the dark. People were terrified and disappointed. People were caught in traps. People were defensive and frantic. They felt as if their lives were being wasted. And they were right."
"every person, I suppose, has their eccentricities but in an effort to be normal in the world's eye they overcome them and therefore destroy their special calling."
"Martin wiped himself, looked down, flushed it away, thinking, there's a very thin line between writing and excreting."
always "the important thing is the obvious thing that nobody is saying."
Poems & Stories:
Poems for the lost dogs
Vengence of the damned
the strongest of the strange
a wild, fresh wind blowing...
Bring me your love
the rape of the holy mother
No Love Songs
at the Sizzler
the orderly
the nurses
There's no business
September 15, 2025
78 birthday today, 9/15/2025
Bukowski's Seventieth Birthday And Mine
I celebrated my 70th birthday last week [2017] and began to think of an appropriate literary commemoration. I have been a reader of the underground writer Charles Bukowski (1920 -- 1994) for some time. Not my only writer nor my favorite, but someone I continue to read. I thought of his book "Septuagenarian Stew" (1990) which Bukowski wrote upon reaching seventy. He and I shared that milestone. I had read the book years ago but had mostly forgotten its contents. Since we were both septuagenarians, I thought the book would mean something more to me. It is a gift to reach the age of seventy and an occasion for reflection.
"Septuagenarian Stew" is a nearly 400 page collection of interspersed poems and short stories. The poems are unrhymed and unmetered and tell stories. The book's language is simple, raw, blunt, and easy to read. The book takes a look back at Bukowski's then long life. It begins with Bukowski growning up in Depression-era Los Angeles in the 1930s, already feeling unwanted and an outcast, and his unhappy relationship with his father. Bukowski appears to have had a lifelong quarrel with and hatred for his father. Then the book turns to Bukowski's storied years of wandering as a bum and an alcoholic. This is the aspect of Bukowski that remains best-known, and many of the entries in this book, such as the extended story "The Life of a Bum" capture it well. The stories and poems show Bukowski working in a series of deadening and dead-end jobs.
Bukowski appears to always have been writing. The book describes his early efforts and his discovery by John Martin of Black Sparrow Press who paid him a stipend and encouraged him to write. Slowly, Bukowski became a famous, successful writer with an international reputation. By the time he reached the age of seventy, the streets, cheap rooming houses, and jobs were well in Bukowski's past. He lived in a beautiful house and suburban Los Angeles and drove a BMW. Bukowski captures this turn of his life and in the latter poems of this collection especially reflects upon his life and upon impending death.
The collection is full of Bukowski's unrepentant alcoholism, his violence, crudeness, and his checkered relationships with many women, including long relationships, one-night stands, and prostitutes. Many poems and stories take place at the racetrack, a lifelong passion of the author. The works are irreverent, often laugh-aloud funny, and in your face. As the book progresses, it focuses on writing In an early poem, "the burning of the dream" about Bukowski's early days in the Los Angeles library, he says "I was a reader/then". He describes his early reading and his dream even as a child of becoming a writer. Some of the poems in this collection are about writers including Jeffers and Camus, and many of the poems deal directly or indirectly with Bukowski's writing life.
With all his alcoholism and skid-row background, Bukowski found a meaning and a purpose in his life in his writing and reading. He put himself into his work. "Septuagenarian Stew" is mixed and too long, but it captures what Bukowski found meant something to him over his life in his practice of writing. My own life is distinctly un-Bukowski like, but I still love the irreverence and lack of correctness in his books. I also can understand his thinking about death. Most of all, reading this book, as a new septuagenarian. I thought of how Bukowski for all his bluster, bravura, and self-pity, had found and pursued a life of some meaning to himself through literature and writing. The book helped me think about what gives purpose to a life as I turned seventy.
Robin Friedman
Bukowski's Seventieth Birthday And Mine
I celebrated my 70th birthday last week [2017] and began to think of an appropriate literary commemoration. I have been a reader of the underground writer Charles Bukowski (1920 -- 1994) for some time. Not my only writer nor my favorite, but someone I continue to read. I thought of his book "Septuagenarian Stew" (1990) which Bukowski wrote upon reaching seventy. He and I shared that milestone. I had read the book years ago but had mostly forgotten its contents. Since we were both septuagenarians, I thought the book would mean something more to me. It is a gift to reach the age of seventy and an occasion for reflection.
"Septuagenarian Stew" is a nearly 400 page collection of interspersed poems and short stories. The poems are unrhymed and unmetered and tell stories. The book's language is simple, raw, blunt, and easy to read. The book takes a look back at Bukowski's then long life. It begins with Bukowski growning up in Depression-era Los Angeles in the 1930s, already feeling unwanted and an outcast, and his unhappy relationship with his father. Bukowski appears to have had a lifelong quarrel with and hatred for his father. Then the book turns to Bukowski's storied years of wandering as a bum and an alcoholic. This is the aspect of Bukowski that remains best-known, and many of the entries in this book, such as the extended story "The Life of a Bum" capture it well. The stories and poems show Bukowski working in a series of deadening and dead-end jobs.
Bukowski appears to always have been writing. The book describes his early efforts and his discovery by John Martin of Black Sparrow Press who paid him a stipend and encouraged him to write. Slowly, Bukowski became a famous, successful writer with an international reputation. By the time he reached the age of seventy, the streets, cheap rooming houses, and jobs were well in Bukowski's past. He lived in a beautiful house and suburban Los Angeles and drove a BMW. Bukowski captures this turn of his life and in the latter poems of this collection especially reflects upon his life and upon impending death.
The collection is full of Bukowski's unrepentant alcoholism, his violence, crudeness, and his checkered relationships with many women, including long relationships, one-night stands, and prostitutes. Many poems and stories take place at the racetrack, a lifelong passion of the author. The works are irreverent, often laugh-aloud funny, and in your face. As the book progresses, it focuses on writing In an early poem, "the burning of the dream" about Bukowski's early days in the Los Angeles library, he says "I was a reader/then". He describes his early reading and his dream even as a child of becoming a writer. Some of the poems in this collection are about writers including Jeffers and Camus, and many of the poems deal directly or indirectly with Bukowski's writing life.
With all his alcoholism and skid-row background, Bukowski found a meaning and a purpose in his life in his writing and reading. He put himself into his work. "Septuagenarian Stew" is mixed and too long, but it captures what Bukowski found meant something to him over his life in his practice of writing. My own life is distinctly un-Bukowski like, but I still love the irreverence and lack of correctness in his books. I also can understand his thinking about death. Most of all, reading this book, as a new septuagenarian. I thought of how Bukowski for all his bluster, bravura, and self-pity, had found and pursued a life of some meaning to himself through literature and writing. The book helped me think about what gives purpose to a life as I turned seventy.
Robin Friedman
September 20, 2019
Reseña completa en el blog:
https://eligeunlibro.blogspot.com/201...
"Creen que si los escritores sufren serán mucho mejores. Eso es pura mierda. El sufrimiento es exactamente igual que cualquier otra cosa: si te dan demasiado, al cabo de un tiempo puedes hundirte. Es el intento de escapar del sufrimiento lo que crea grandes escritores: te sientes tan bien que haces que los lectores se sientan bien".
En este compendio de relatos de Bukowski, solo algunos cuentos me parecieron muy buenos, los demás caían un poco en temáticas que, si bien son típicas del autor, se alejan un poco de sus peripecias existenciales. Cuentos sobre boxeadores, beisbol, hipódromo y jockeys abundan en el libro y no fueron mis preferidos. Quizá el relato que la da el título a este libro es el mejor de todos, lástima que estuviese al inicio y no al final.
https://eligeunlibro.blogspot.com/201...
"Creen que si los escritores sufren serán mucho mejores. Eso es pura mierda. El sufrimiento es exactamente igual que cualquier otra cosa: si te dan demasiado, al cabo de un tiempo puedes hundirte. Es el intento de escapar del sufrimiento lo que crea grandes escritores: te sientes tan bien que haces que los lectores se sientan bien".
En este compendio de relatos de Bukowski, solo algunos cuentos me parecieron muy buenos, los demás caían un poco en temáticas que, si bien son típicas del autor, se alejan un poco de sus peripecias existenciales. Cuentos sobre boxeadores, beisbol, hipódromo y jockeys abundan en el libro y no fueron mis preferidos. Quizá el relato que la da el título a este libro es el mejor de todos, lástima que estuviese al inicio y no al final.
October 13, 2019
Thoughts on Bukowski as opposed to a specific review of this book in particular:
A lot of folk are compared with Bukowski especially if they wrote during the same time period but I think that it is more of a cultural standard to write plainly about what was happening around them or to them with cosseting it in easier to handle ways; Bukowski didn’t invent that, he just so beautifully laid himself bare dressed with very little justification. Most of us try to rationalize our (or other’s) poor life choices, he didn’t. He also made it fairly evident that he wasn’t planning on changing his ways either. When he did start to change due to age, or improved life events, people claimed he was selling out, I don’t see that. Most of us can’t help but change some with age. He noted what other people thought but he didn’t let it affect (effect? I never could get those two straight!) his life. Much the same way a person notes that it is raining outside and goes out the door to do their daily routine just the same.
But then Bukowski was also very influenced by Rimbaud, Verlaine, and another writer he always wrote about whose name eludes me currently (I’ve got brain fog right now, so sue me) who were doing this long before he was. When a writer transports you to whatever experience they has to where you are markedly effected by it, it is honest and intense writing, no matter the subject matter. I believe Alcoholism is a popular subject matter because it is so rampant in society and in a sense socially acceptable in a that alcohol is legal and is part of everything from social to religious gatherings. Also it was becoming so frequent in society it no longer could be ignored or swept under the rug.
These is something about Bukowski’s writing that appeals to me in a way that no other writer of this style does. I enjoy reading him while I am not particularly fond of the genre. Normally I don’t want to descend into someone’s personalized circles of Hell, but I don’t feel that with Bukowski; perhaps it is his profound lack of wanting to be pitied. He doesn’t want you to feel sorry for him. He does have a little bit of self pity in reference to his childhood as what happened to him as a child was quite a shitty thing done to someone who couldn’t defend themselves and had no recourse or salvation from it. His parents created the adult Bukowski by being awful abusive and unloving people. The weekly nightmare of grass mowing and being beaten for one blade not being uniform was not discipline, but sadistic torture. A child deserves love and pity and Bukowski saw that, but as an adult who could defend himself, he neither expected nor wanted it unless it lasted just long enough to get him laid; then it could be tolerated temporarily. I had a wonderful Cajun friend who used to say that if you were free, white and over 21 you couldn’t blame anyone else in life. In other words, you needed to suck it up and take responsibility for your actions and what happened to you in your life as you were the master of your own destiny once you hit 21. No one could control you anymore without you letting them at that point. This was basically Bukowski’s view. He certainly took his punches, often literally, and accepted what happened to him.
An old boyfriend introduced me to Bukowski’s work in my early 30s and I’ve been reading and rereading him since. One day I hope to be able to put into words what exactly it is that so appeals to me about his writing since it’s not normal fare. Only time will tell I suppose.
A lot of folk are compared with Bukowski especially if they wrote during the same time period but I think that it is more of a cultural standard to write plainly about what was happening around them or to them with cosseting it in easier to handle ways; Bukowski didn’t invent that, he just so beautifully laid himself bare dressed with very little justification. Most of us try to rationalize our (or other’s) poor life choices, he didn’t. He also made it fairly evident that he wasn’t planning on changing his ways either. When he did start to change due to age, or improved life events, people claimed he was selling out, I don’t see that. Most of us can’t help but change some with age. He noted what other people thought but he didn’t let it affect (effect? I never could get those two straight!) his life. Much the same way a person notes that it is raining outside and goes out the door to do their daily routine just the same.
But then Bukowski was also very influenced by Rimbaud, Verlaine, and another writer he always wrote about whose name eludes me currently (I’ve got brain fog right now, so sue me) who were doing this long before he was. When a writer transports you to whatever experience they has to where you are markedly effected by it, it is honest and intense writing, no matter the subject matter. I believe Alcoholism is a popular subject matter because it is so rampant in society and in a sense socially acceptable in a that alcohol is legal and is part of everything from social to religious gatherings. Also it was becoming so frequent in society it no longer could be ignored or swept under the rug.
These is something about Bukowski’s writing that appeals to me in a way that no other writer of this style does. I enjoy reading him while I am not particularly fond of the genre. Normally I don’t want to descend into someone’s personalized circles of Hell, but I don’t feel that with Bukowski; perhaps it is his profound lack of wanting to be pitied. He doesn’t want you to feel sorry for him. He does have a little bit of self pity in reference to his childhood as what happened to him as a child was quite a shitty thing done to someone who couldn’t defend themselves and had no recourse or salvation from it. His parents created the adult Bukowski by being awful abusive and unloving people. The weekly nightmare of grass mowing and being beaten for one blade not being uniform was not discipline, but sadistic torture. A child deserves love and pity and Bukowski saw that, but as an adult who could defend himself, he neither expected nor wanted it unless it lasted just long enough to get him laid; then it could be tolerated temporarily. I had a wonderful Cajun friend who used to say that if you were free, white and over 21 you couldn’t blame anyone else in life. In other words, you needed to suck it up and take responsibility for your actions and what happened to you in your life as you were the master of your own destiny once you hit 21. No one could control you anymore without you letting them at that point. This was basically Bukowski’s view. He certainly took his punches, often literally, and accepted what happened to him.
An old boyfriend introduced me to Bukowski’s work in my early 30s and I’ve been reading and rereading him since. One day I hope to be able to put into words what exactly it is that so appeals to me about his writing since it’s not normal fare. Only time will tell I suppose.
April 12, 2022
Разказите ми се всладиха до един, но сред тях някак изпъкнаха „Полет без криле“, „Писателите“, „Без любовни песни“ (о-о-о да!!!) и „Достатъчно луд“. Мисля, че гениалността на Буковски се крие в изключително сериозния начин, по който се опитва да не се взема насериозно, а елегантната простота на прозата му всъщност е изключително трудно постижима.
Ето четири произволни цитата:
„Рецесия“ – казваше той – е когато жена ти избяга с друг мъж. „Депресия“ е когато другият мъж ти я върне.
Всички си мислят, че ако писателите страдат, така е по-добре за тях. Това са глупости. Страданието е като всичко друго – ако ти дойде в повече, в крайна сметка си свършен. Да избягаш от страданието, е онова, което прави великите писатели: усещането е толкова хубаво, че се предава и на читателите.
- Това е по-зле от поетично четене – каза ми тя.
- Н��що – отговорих аз – не е по-зле от поетично четене.
Хората ми изпиваха силите с това, че постоянно се обиждаха за нещо; ако не им подаваш точно каквото искат да чуят, го приемат като оскърбление.
По отношение на поезията съм леко консервативен – в редките случаи, когато посягам към такава предпочитам стиховете да са римувани. Все пак няколко от творбите в сборника успяха да ме впечатлят. Към двете, които пускам, добавям и „адът е самотно място“.
1
сестрите
в болницата, в която от известно време
ходя
сестрите изглеждат
охранени.
изпълват
белите престилки
с дебели бедра
тежки задници
масивни
крака
всички изглеждат на
47 години
и крачат нашироко
като старите защитници
от
30-те
изглеждат дистанцирани
от своята професия.
изпълняват задълженията си
но с
липса на
контакт.
разминавам се с тях по
алеите и в
коридорите.
никога не ме поглеждат в
очите.
прощавам им за
тежките обувки
и за дистанцията
която налагат
между себе си и
всеки пациент.
защото тези дами са наистина
охранени:
сервирана им е била
толкова много
смърт.
2
от друг калъп
въпросната вечер
карал
гол
по
магистралата
спукал гума
спрял колата
отбил до
банкета
започнал
да сменя
гумата
предизвикал
сериозно
задръстване
толкова
сериозно
че
полицията
не можела
да стигне
дотам
бил
майстор:
свалил
гумата
сложил
резервната
скочил
в колата
изчезнал оттам
преди да
пристигнат.
един съвестен
гражданин им
казал
номера на колата
и започнало
издирване.
два часа
по-късно
колата
била
открита
пред
едно
гробище
за хора
от средната
класа.
издирването
не
открило нищо
друго
освен
мъртъвци.
нямало помен
от
шофьора.
колата
била
крадена.
има
всякакви
луди
някои по-
талантливи
и
оригинални
от
прекалено
многобройните
скучни
скучни
нормални.
Ето четири произволни цитата:
„Рецесия“ – казваше той – е когато жена ти избяга с друг мъж. „Депресия“ е когато другият мъж ти я върне.
Всички си мислят, че ако писателите страдат, така е по-добре за тях. Това са глупости. Страданието е като всичко друго – ако ти дойде в повече, в крайна сметка си свършен. Да избягаш от страданието, е онова, което прави великите писатели: усещането е толкова хубаво, че се предава и на читателите.
- Това е по-зле от поетично четене – каза ми тя.
- Н��що – отговорих аз – не е по-зле от поетично четене.
Хората ми изпиваха силите с това, че постоянно се обиждаха за нещо; ако не им подаваш точно каквото искат да чуят, го приемат като оскърбление.
По отношение на поезията съм леко консервативен – в редките случаи, когато посягам към такава предпочитам стиховете да са римувани. Все пак няколко от творбите в сборника успяха да ме впечатлят. Към двете, които пускам, добавям и „адът е самотно място“.
1
сестрите
в болницата, в която от известно време
ходя
сестрите изглеждат
охранени.
изпълват
белите престилки
с дебели бедра
тежки задници
масивни
крака
всички изглеждат на
47 години
и крачат нашироко
като старите защитници
от
30-те
изглеждат дистанцирани
от своята професия.
изпълняват задълженията си
но с
липса на
контакт.
разминавам се с тях по
алеите и в
коридорите.
никога не ме поглеждат в
очите.
прощавам им за
тежките обувки
и за дистанцията
която налагат
между себе си и
всеки пациент.
защото тези дами са наистина
охранени:
сервирана им е била
толкова много
смърт.
2
от друг калъп
въпросната вечер
карал
гол
по
магистралата
спукал гума
спрял колата
отбил до
банкета
започнал
да сменя
гумата
предизвикал
сериозно
задръстване
толкова
сериозно
че
полицията
не можела
да стигне
дотам
бил
майстор:
свалил
гумата
сложил
резервната
скочил
в колата
изчезнал оттам
преди да
пристигнат.
един съвестен
гражданин им
казал
номера на колата
и започнало
издирване.
два часа
по-късно
колата
била
открита
пред
едно
гробище
за хора
от средната
класа.
издирването
не
открило нищо
друго
освен
мъртъвци.
нямало помен
от
шофьора.
колата
била
крадена.
има
всякакви
луди
някои по-
талантливи
и
оригинални
от
прекалено
многобройните
скучни
скучни
нормални.
February 21, 2019
4 χρόνια ψαξιματος και στο μεταξύ άλλαξα χώρα κατοικίας. Το βρήκα, το αγόρασα, μου το έστειλαν και το διάβασα σε διαφορετική χώρα από αυτή που μενω πια καθώς μόνο τότε βρήκα χρόνο!
Είναι από τα βιβλία που χαίρεσαι να τα έχεις στη βιβλιοθήκη σου και κρυφά καμαρώνεις για το ότι δεν υπάρχουν πολλά αντίτυπα εκεί έξω.
Αποτελεί ένα συγκεντρωτικό κατά μια εννοια τόμο, της δουλειάς του Μπουκοφσκι. Περιλαμβάνει ποιήματα και διηγήματα και αν δε κάνω λάθος, χρονικα είναι μάλλον από τα τελευταία που έγραψε. Και πάλι θα βρει κανείς σκόρπιες φράσεις πραγματικής σοφιας και στοχασμού. Χαρακτηριστικά θα αναφέρω τις σελίδες 53 και 200, για οποια/όποιον το έχει στη βιβλιοθήκη του.
Το έχω αναφέρει ξανά πως δυστυχώς δε μπορώ να είμαι τόσο αντικειμενικός καθώς θαυμάζω το έργο του. Παρόλα αυτά και με όσο αντικειμενική ματιά μπορώ να έχω, αξίζει να το αναζητήσει κάποιος είτε είναι γνωστης είτε όχι του έργου του.
ΥΓ: Και ναι βαρέθηκα και εγώ να βλέπω παντού φράσεις παρμένες από το έργο του (όπως και άλλων συγγραφέων) επικολλημένες σε διαδικτυακούς «τοίχους»...
Είναι από τα βιβλία που χαίρεσαι να τα έχεις στη βιβλιοθήκη σου και κρυφά καμαρώνεις για το ότι δεν υπάρχουν πολλά αντίτυπα εκεί έξω.
Αποτελεί ένα συγκεντρωτικό κατά μια εννοια τόμο, της δουλειάς του Μπουκοφσκι. Περιλαμβάνει ποιήματα και διηγήματα και αν δε κάνω λάθος, χρονικα είναι μάλλον από τα τελευταία που έγραψε. Και πάλι θα βρει κανείς σκόρπιες φράσεις πραγματικής σοφιας και στοχασμού. Χαρακτηριστικά θα αναφέρω τις σελίδες 53 και 200, για οποια/όποιον το έχει στη βιβλιοθήκη του.
Το έχω αναφέρει ξανά πως δυστυχώς δε μπορώ να είμαι τόσο αντικειμενικός καθώς θαυμάζω το έργο του. Παρόλα αυτά και με όσο αντικειμενική ματιά μπορώ να έχω, αξίζει να το αναζητήσει κάποιος είτε είναι γνωστης είτε όχι του έργου του.
ΥΓ: Και ναι βαρέθηκα και εγώ να βλέπω παντού φράσεις παρμένες από το έργο του (όπως και άλλων συγγραφέων) επικολλημένες σε διαδικτυακούς «τοίχους»...
January 13, 2018
"Es war ein Ort, am dem sich kein vernünftiger Mensch je aufgehalten hätte, doch ich bin kein vernünftiger Mensch, und da war ich nun."
„Jeder zahlt drauf“ ist eine erstmals 1990 erschienene, kompakte Kurzgeschichtensammlung von Charles Bukowski mit 23 einzelnen Kurzgeschichten über knapp 240 Seiten. In der amerikanischen Ausgabe sind zusätzlich zu den Geschichten auch Gedichte enthalten, auf die hier allerdings verzichtet wurde. Da ich mit der Dichtkunst ein wenig fremdel, für mich (noch) kein spürbarer Verlust, allerdings hat mich der Roman sprachlich derart überzeugt, so viel vorweg, dass ich mir vorstellen kann, in eine seiner Gedichtsammlungen hineinzuschnuppern.
Da es nicht Sinn und Zweck der Übung ist, dreiundzwanzig einzelne Geschichten zusammenzufassen, die noch dazu in keinem direkten handlungstechnischen Zusammenhang stehen, gehe ich zur Analyse und meiner Einschätzung über.
Für mich ist „Jeder zahl drauf“ nicht nur mein erster Bukowski, ich hatte bis vor der zufälligen Begegnung mit diesem Titel noch nicht einmal von ihm gehört. Beim Stöbern in den schier endlosen Programmübersichten deutscher Verlage blieb ich irgendwann bei ihm hängen, machte Gebrauch von einer Leseprobe und schließlich fand das Buch seinen Weg in mein Bücherregal.
Es gibt vor allem zwei Dinge, die nach der Lektüre meinen Eindruck von Bukowski ganz wesentlich geprägt haben. Das ist erstens ein Hang und auch ein Talent dafür, eine Perspektive auf die Welt zu schaffen, in der Mann (!) letzten Endes auf sich allein gestellt ist und die alles Mögliche für ihn bereithält, aber nicht auf seiner Seite steht. Ganze dreiundzwanzigmal las ich, wie Menschen gescheitert waren oder im Scheitern begriffen sind, die ihr Leben oftmals als Gefängnis verstehen, aus dem sie nicht entkommen können (zumindest im Leben). Durch die Geschichten hinweg ist trotz der teilweise sehr unterschiedlichen Figuren immer wieder genau dieser Defätismus spürbar, der dem Leser vermittelt, dass es in der Welt von Bukwoskis Figuren im Grunde immer nur abwärtsgehen kann. Kinder, denen Gewalt angetan wird und die selbst gewalttätig sind; Obdachlose und Bettler; Alkoholsüchtige; Verschuldete: Das sind die Protagonisten, deren Misere sehr mitfühlend und präzise geschildert wird. Ein flüchtiger Blick in seine Biografie gibt vielsagende Hinweise, woher er diesen pessimistischen, antiromantischen Blick auf das Leben hat.
„Er ist am Arsch. Dachte Harry. Und ich bins auch. Wir sind alle am Arsch, jeder auf seine Art. Es gibt keine Wahrheit, keine Realität, kein gar nichts.“ (S.41)
„Wenn ich je in die Hölle komme, dachte Henry, wird es aussehen wir hier. Oder vielleicht bin ich schon tot, und das ist die Hölle.“ (S.76)
Zweitens schafft es der Autor vor allem durch sein sprachliches Geschick, die Atmosphäre für den Leser spürbar zu machen. Es sind keine langen und komplexen Sätze, oder ein Fundus an Fremd- und Fachwörtern, sondern ein sehr eindrücklicher Stil, der mich auch mit kurzen Sätzen und einfachen rhetorischen Mitteln in seine Welt abholt. Dazu kommt Die unzweifelhafte existierende Vulgarität ist dabei nie platt und primitiv, sondern hat immer auch ihre humorvolle Poetik und konnte mir oft ein Schmunzeln, nicht selten auch ein breites Grinsen abringen. Wer sich dieser Form von Humor nicht gänzlich verschließt, wird ein umso größeres Lesevergnügen haben. Der Ton wird dabei aber niemals ein fröhlicher, „feel good“ ist kein Schlagwort, unter dem sich diese Kurzgeschichten finden lassen, viel eher Tragik und Wahnsinn, die mit etwas Humor aufgelockert werden.
Mein erstes Buch im Jahr 2018 und ein voller Erfolg. Bitter, tragisch, zynisch, schwarzhumorig und vulgär, aber darin absolut konsequent.
4/5
„Jeder zahlt drauf“ ist eine erstmals 1990 erschienene, kompakte Kurzgeschichtensammlung von Charles Bukowski mit 23 einzelnen Kurzgeschichten über knapp 240 Seiten. In der amerikanischen Ausgabe sind zusätzlich zu den Geschichten auch Gedichte enthalten, auf die hier allerdings verzichtet wurde. Da ich mit der Dichtkunst ein wenig fremdel, für mich (noch) kein spürbarer Verlust, allerdings hat mich der Roman sprachlich derart überzeugt, so viel vorweg, dass ich mir vorstellen kann, in eine seiner Gedichtsammlungen hineinzuschnuppern.
Da es nicht Sinn und Zweck der Übung ist, dreiundzwanzig einzelne Geschichten zusammenzufassen, die noch dazu in keinem direkten handlungstechnischen Zusammenhang stehen, gehe ich zur Analyse und meiner Einschätzung über.
Für mich ist „Jeder zahl drauf“ nicht nur mein erster Bukowski, ich hatte bis vor der zufälligen Begegnung mit diesem Titel noch nicht einmal von ihm gehört. Beim Stöbern in den schier endlosen Programmübersichten deutscher Verlage blieb ich irgendwann bei ihm hängen, machte Gebrauch von einer Leseprobe und schließlich fand das Buch seinen Weg in mein Bücherregal.
Es gibt vor allem zwei Dinge, die nach der Lektüre meinen Eindruck von Bukowski ganz wesentlich geprägt haben. Das ist erstens ein Hang und auch ein Talent dafür, eine Perspektive auf die Welt zu schaffen, in der Mann (!) letzten Endes auf sich allein gestellt ist und die alles Mögliche für ihn bereithält, aber nicht auf seiner Seite steht. Ganze dreiundzwanzigmal las ich, wie Menschen gescheitert waren oder im Scheitern begriffen sind, die ihr Leben oftmals als Gefängnis verstehen, aus dem sie nicht entkommen können (zumindest im Leben). Durch die Geschichten hinweg ist trotz der teilweise sehr unterschiedlichen Figuren immer wieder genau dieser Defätismus spürbar, der dem Leser vermittelt, dass es in der Welt von Bukwoskis Figuren im Grunde immer nur abwärtsgehen kann. Kinder, denen Gewalt angetan wird und die selbst gewalttätig sind; Obdachlose und Bettler; Alkoholsüchtige; Verschuldete: Das sind die Protagonisten, deren Misere sehr mitfühlend und präzise geschildert wird. Ein flüchtiger Blick in seine Biografie gibt vielsagende Hinweise, woher er diesen pessimistischen, antiromantischen Blick auf das Leben hat.
„Er ist am Arsch. Dachte Harry. Und ich bins auch. Wir sind alle am Arsch, jeder auf seine Art. Es gibt keine Wahrheit, keine Realität, kein gar nichts.“ (S.41)
„Wenn ich je in die Hölle komme, dachte Henry, wird es aussehen wir hier. Oder vielleicht bin ich schon tot, und das ist die Hölle.“ (S.76)
Zweitens schafft es der Autor vor allem durch sein sprachliches Geschick, die Atmosphäre für den Leser spürbar zu machen. Es sind keine langen und komplexen Sätze, oder ein Fundus an Fremd- und Fachwörtern, sondern ein sehr eindrücklicher Stil, der mich auch mit kurzen Sätzen und einfachen rhetorischen Mitteln in seine Welt abholt. Dazu kommt Die unzweifelhafte existierende Vulgarität ist dabei nie platt und primitiv, sondern hat immer auch ihre humorvolle Poetik und konnte mir oft ein Schmunzeln, nicht selten auch ein breites Grinsen abringen. Wer sich dieser Form von Humor nicht gänzlich verschließt, wird ein umso größeres Lesevergnügen haben. Der Ton wird dabei aber niemals ein fröhlicher, „feel good“ ist kein Schlagwort, unter dem sich diese Kurzgeschichten finden lassen, viel eher Tragik und Wahnsinn, die mit etwas Humor aufgelockert werden.
Mein erstes Buch im Jahr 2018 und ein voller Erfolg. Bitter, tragisch, zynisch, schwarzhumorig und vulgär, aber darin absolut konsequent.
4/5
June 22, 2016
No me creo capaz de criticarlo a nivel literario porque estoy muy lejos de ser una experta en literatura, pero sé que este libro no es mi tipo, es el primero que leo de él y creo que es un libro que está bien escrito, la lectura me resultó fluida, no me dejó mucho, además de una sucesión de hechos triviales y algunos terribles, la rutina, la violencia, la desidia, están en cada historia. Me quedó la sensación de que es un libro muy masculino, todos desde esta visión y que el punto de vista femenino estaba tan rebajado que me produjo cero cercanía, algunos relatos incluso me resultaron aburridos, lo siento Bukowski adiós.
September 16, 2023
Muy divertido.
February 16, 2020
Kirja on amerikkalaisen 1900-luvun kirjallisuuden virallisen rääväsuun syntymäpäiväjuhlanovellikokoelma, joten odotukset olivat korkealla. Valitettavasti Bukowski ei tässä yllä aivan odotusten tasolle. Toki hänen novellinsa ovat edelleen näkymä elämän karheammalle puolelle, rosoinen välähdys elämästä, jossa viina vie, onni ei potki ja kehenkään ei voi luottaa.
Silti novelleissa on jotenkin väsynyt tunnelma. Postitoimiston synkkä uhma on poissa, ja tuntuu siltä kuin Bukowski kokisi jääneensä tyylinsä vangiksi: tätäkö hänen elämänsä nyt on (ollut), näiden samojen paskalauseiden kierrättämistä sivusta toiseen. Mitään oivalluksen hetkiä kokoelma ei valitettavasti tarjonnut.
Silti novelleissa on jotenkin väsynyt tunnelma. Postitoimiston synkkä uhma on poissa, ja tuntuu siltä kuin Bukowski kokisi jääneensä tyylinsä vangiksi: tätäkö hänen elämänsä nyt on (ollut), näiden samojen paskalauseiden kierrättämistä sivusta toiseen. Mitään oivalluksen hetkiä kokoelma ei valitettavasti tarjonnut.
April 2, 2022
Everybody knows Bukowski was the drunk, womanizing, dirty old man. But the dirty old man could pack so much meaning in so few words. Like a lecher Buddha. Plus writers are supposed to write, and the man threw away or lost more of his work than most writers can write in a lifetime. Good stuff. Typical late Bukowski.
“Yeah. Everything conspires and very little matters. And the big things seldom matter…”
“Yeah? What matters?”
“What matters are the small things like making sure you have enough water in your car radiator, or getting your toenails clipped, or having enough toilet paper, or an extra light bulb, things like that.”
“That doesn’t seem like much.”
“It’s plenty. Handle your trivial affairs well and the gigantic matters will fall into place.”
“Even death?”
“Even death will assume a perfect logic.”
“I like that,” said Benji.
“I do too,” I said, “even if it might not be true.”
(from ‘Mad Enough’)
“Yeah. Everything conspires and very little matters. And the big things seldom matter…”
“Yeah? What matters?”
“What matters are the small things like making sure you have enough water in your car radiator, or getting your toenails clipped, or having enough toilet paper, or an extra light bulb, things like that.”
“That doesn’t seem like much.”
“It’s plenty. Handle your trivial affairs well and the gigantic matters will fall into place.”
“Even death?”
“Even death will assume a perfect logic.”
“I like that,” said Benji.
“I do too,” I said, “even if it might not be true.”
(from ‘Mad Enough’)
January 11, 2018
SUMATORIO DE DERROTAS
Charles Bukowski es un poeta duro y un novelista desagradable. Si ambas cualidades se unen en la concentración de un relato breve, el resultado es un mazazo desolador para el lector. Es el caso del volumen de narraciones Hijo de Satanás –en su título original Septuagenarian stew–, publicado en España allá por 1993 y con un buen puñado de reediciones, el mejor ejemplo de esto. De toda la literatura que he leído de Charles Bukowski, esta es la colección de relatos más negra, desoladora y deprimente de su autor, que aúna algunas de sus obras maestras en una modalidad tan compleja como el corto recorrido narrativo.
Hijo de Satanás no contiene, fundamentalmente, nada distinto al resto de trabajos de su autor, fundamentado en una recopilación de textos sobre fracaso y derrota, quizás esta vez más centrado en boxeadores, trabajadores manuales, pordioseros y vagabundos, ludópatas de hipódromo, jockeys, cómicos sin gracia y escritores venidos a menos o vendidos al sistema… la fauna habitual que desfila por las páginas de Bukowski. Sin embargo, el volumen encierra un aspecto que resulta estremecedor. Muchos de estos textos están escritos presentando a unos personajes que “aparentemente” han triunfado en el american way of life, pero solo “aparentemente” para, finalmente, demostrar con todo el peso de su caída el fracaso más absoluto. Si la desgracia, la hipocresía, la miseria, eran temas afines y típicos, por no decir tópicos, en las obras de Bukowski, este Hijo de Satanás se escribe y concibe centralmente desde un único tema: la derrota o, si lo ampliamos o le ponemos huesos y carnes, podría asegurar que es un trabajo sobre la figura del perdedor.
Desde el estremecedor y violento cuento que da título e inicia el libro, pasando por el demoledor Un día y el mordaz Los escritores, los relatos levantan con una escritura sucia las costras de las heridas más infames del sistema, y dejan algo así como una sensación de diente con el nervio al aire que en algunas ocasiones se hace muy difícil de tragar.
Un ejemplo lo encontramos en el relato Mala noche: “tenía 47 años, toda su vida había ido de un trabajo estúpido a otro trabajo estúpido. Nunca había tenido una ocupación decente (…) Nada en la tele. Monty se sirvió un whisky. Había estado casado dos veces. En las dos ocasiones el comienzo había sido prometedor. Había habido risas y comprensión, y el sexo no había estado mal con ninguna de las dos mujeres. Pero gradualmente los matrimonios se convertían en empleos. Carecían de variedad. En seguida esos dos matrimonios se habían vuelto un concurso, un concurso de quién podía agotar al otro. Se habían vuelto un juego del odio. Monty tuvo que abandonar las dos veces (…) ¿Cuántas vidas había como la suya? ¿Cuánta gente que simplemente continuaba de modo insensato?” (traducción de Cecilia Ceriani y Txaro Santoro).
Evidentemente, Charles Bukowski no es solo un autor de sexo y borracheras (algo que cada vez me parece ver más claro en Henry Miller, en un proceso a la inversa que he experimentado con este autor). Bukowski me habla del corazón humano, lo examina y lo procesa, para concluir con una completa y nada compleja derrota. Y aquí radica el acierto, lo que hace de Hijo de Satanás la recopilación más abrumadora de su autor, que esas derrotas (la del boxeador que se imagina triunfante, la del jockey o el entrenador de beisbol drogadictos y borrachos, la del matrimonio con hijos que se ahogan en ginebra), todas y cada una de las derrotas aquí narradas, se producen en el seno de un país, Estados Unidos, en el cual, como dice Bukowski en su relato El ganador: “era un buen sitio donde estar cuando se era ganador”.
Estados Unidos y cualquier sitio, obviamente, son los mejores sitios del mundo para el triunfo. Pero vivimos instalados en un sistemático maltrato de los derrotados, de ahí lo terrible de esta suma de derrotas narradas con tanto vigor como lucidez por Charles Bukowski.
En efecto, este no es un mundo para perdedores.
Unos textos aterradores y aplastantes, tal vez demasiado concretos en figuras típicas norteamericanas del universo Chinaski como el jugador de hipódromo o el jockey, con las que podría encontrarme menos familiarizado, pero con la composición de algunos personajes inolvidables: el obrero manual aginebrado, el cómico envodkado, los escritores envidiosos, el chef malhumorado, el niño matoncillo de barrio deprimido o el boxeador sentenciado, bien se merecen rozar lo excelente.
Charles Bukowski es un poeta duro y un novelista desagradable. Si ambas cualidades se unen en la concentración de un relato breve, el resultado es un mazazo desolador para el lector. Es el caso del volumen de narraciones Hijo de Satanás –en su título original Septuagenarian stew–, publicado en España allá por 1993 y con un buen puñado de reediciones, el mejor ejemplo de esto. De toda la literatura que he leído de Charles Bukowski, esta es la colección de relatos más negra, desoladora y deprimente de su autor, que aúna algunas de sus obras maestras en una modalidad tan compleja como el corto recorrido narrativo.
Hijo de Satanás no contiene, fundamentalmente, nada distinto al resto de trabajos de su autor, fundamentado en una recopilación de textos sobre fracaso y derrota, quizás esta vez más centrado en boxeadores, trabajadores manuales, pordioseros y vagabundos, ludópatas de hipódromo, jockeys, cómicos sin gracia y escritores venidos a menos o vendidos al sistema… la fauna habitual que desfila por las páginas de Bukowski. Sin embargo, el volumen encierra un aspecto que resulta estremecedor. Muchos de estos textos están escritos presentando a unos personajes que “aparentemente” han triunfado en el american way of life, pero solo “aparentemente” para, finalmente, demostrar con todo el peso de su caída el fracaso más absoluto. Si la desgracia, la hipocresía, la miseria, eran temas afines y típicos, por no decir tópicos, en las obras de Bukowski, este Hijo de Satanás se escribe y concibe centralmente desde un único tema: la derrota o, si lo ampliamos o le ponemos huesos y carnes, podría asegurar que es un trabajo sobre la figura del perdedor.
Desde el estremecedor y violento cuento que da título e inicia el libro, pasando por el demoledor Un día y el mordaz Los escritores, los relatos levantan con una escritura sucia las costras de las heridas más infames del sistema, y dejan algo así como una sensación de diente con el nervio al aire que en algunas ocasiones se hace muy difícil de tragar.
Un ejemplo lo encontramos en el relato Mala noche: “tenía 47 años, toda su vida había ido de un trabajo estúpido a otro trabajo estúpido. Nunca había tenido una ocupación decente (…) Nada en la tele. Monty se sirvió un whisky. Había estado casado dos veces. En las dos ocasiones el comienzo había sido prometedor. Había habido risas y comprensión, y el sexo no había estado mal con ninguna de las dos mujeres. Pero gradualmente los matrimonios se convertían en empleos. Carecían de variedad. En seguida esos dos matrimonios se habían vuelto un concurso, un concurso de quién podía agotar al otro. Se habían vuelto un juego del odio. Monty tuvo que abandonar las dos veces (…) ¿Cuántas vidas había como la suya? ¿Cuánta gente que simplemente continuaba de modo insensato?” (traducción de Cecilia Ceriani y Txaro Santoro).
Evidentemente, Charles Bukowski no es solo un autor de sexo y borracheras (algo que cada vez me parece ver más claro en Henry Miller, en un proceso a la inversa que he experimentado con este autor). Bukowski me habla del corazón humano, lo examina y lo procesa, para concluir con una completa y nada compleja derrota. Y aquí radica el acierto, lo que hace de Hijo de Satanás la recopilación más abrumadora de su autor, que esas derrotas (la del boxeador que se imagina triunfante, la del jockey o el entrenador de beisbol drogadictos y borrachos, la del matrimonio con hijos que se ahogan en ginebra), todas y cada una de las derrotas aquí narradas, se producen en el seno de un país, Estados Unidos, en el cual, como dice Bukowski en su relato El ganador: “era un buen sitio donde estar cuando se era ganador”.
Estados Unidos y cualquier sitio, obviamente, son los mejores sitios del mundo para el triunfo. Pero vivimos instalados en un sistemático maltrato de los derrotados, de ahí lo terrible de esta suma de derrotas narradas con tanto vigor como lucidez por Charles Bukowski.
En efecto, este no es un mundo para perdedores.
Unos textos aterradores y aplastantes, tal vez demasiado concretos en figuras típicas norteamericanas del universo Chinaski como el jugador de hipódromo o el jockey, con las que podría encontrarme menos familiarizado, pero con la composición de algunos personajes inolvidables: el obrero manual aginebrado, el cómico envodkado, los escritores envidiosos, el chef malhumorado, el niño matoncillo de barrio deprimido o el boxeador sentenciado, bien se merecen rozar lo excelente.
November 8, 2011
Bukoski is a trashy class act. Trashy because he writes about defecating. Classy cuz he’s honest. Act because he wrote a lot a bullshit for money. This collection, released near the end of his life, contains the usual: drinking, women, shitting, being a fucking bum. We expect this kind of material. However, in this collection, there are a lot of poems about writing (being discovered), old age, work, fame (being recognized), and horse-races. This is new stuff. While I don’t give a shit about horse races, I do care about the existential concerns of a life-long drunk and compulsive writer, who somehow, drunk or otherwise, pulled out a good line or two. He conjures some stuff. On feeling inexplicably content: “good rare feelings come at the oddest times, like now as I tell you all of this,” he writes in poem for lost dogs. In tired in the afterdusk, he writes on reflection: “this is the space between spaces, this is when the ever-war relents for just a moment, this is when you consider the inconsiderate years...”[return][return]It’s all very nostalgia coated, but still funny. And like most writers/drunks, Bukoski is a mostly honest narrator; he writes about anything regardless of taboo. He does not care what you think, which continually draws us in because we know there are “golden nuggets” to be found. These qualities make up for his “ugly,” utilitarian writing that sometimes seems like “typewriting” (which he talks about often) instead of meaningful, god-inspired prose.
November 3, 2021
Éste libro es una compilación de relatos cortos con un lenguaje sencillo. La conocida "prosa de alcantarilla" De Bukowski está repleta de personajes marcados por el fracaso y la rutina.
En cada capítulo se mezclan el alcohol, las drogas, el sexo y las prostitutas, llenandolo todo de un lenguaje vulgar y cínico. Y esque... ¡Ése es su estilo!
Diría que cada relato es autobiográfico ya que aparecen escritores, borrachos, apostadores entre otros, en situaciones en las que según sus biografías se vió envuelto.
Lo que no me gustó es que cualquier personaje femenino es denostado. Sabiendo que habla de prostitutas puedo entender que refleja la realidad, pero una realidad contada desde el punto de vista de un hombre con fama de mujeriego. Cuando leía sobre ellas solo me causaba enojo.
No logré disfrutar éste tipo de lectura, ya que habla mucho sobre algunos deportes que no son de mi interés y porque la historia no tiene una continuidad.
Primer libro que leo de Bukowski y me doy cuenta que talvez no fué el indicado para interesarme en volver a leerlo.
En cada capítulo se mezclan el alcohol, las drogas, el sexo y las prostitutas, llenandolo todo de un lenguaje vulgar y cínico. Y esque... ¡Ése es su estilo!
Diría que cada relato es autobiográfico ya que aparecen escritores, borrachos, apostadores entre otros, en situaciones en las que según sus biografías se vió envuelto.
Lo que no me gustó es que cualquier personaje femenino es denostado. Sabiendo que habla de prostitutas puedo entender que refleja la realidad, pero una realidad contada desde el punto de vista de un hombre con fama de mujeriego. Cuando leía sobre ellas solo me causaba enojo.
No logré disfrutar éste tipo de lectura, ya que habla mucho sobre algunos deportes que no son de mi interés y porque la historia no tiene una continuidad.
Primer libro que leo de Bukowski y me doy cuenta que talvez no fué el indicado para interesarme en volver a leerlo.
December 28, 2020
Los primeros cuentos son demoledores.
Luego son cuentos biográficos.
Luego son cuentos biográficos.
December 22, 2015
Mi segundo libro de Bukowski, después de leer Cartero. Tuve que parar varias veces la lectura para reírme. Bukowski es como Woody Allen en sus películas, siempre está presente en algún personaje que habla con su misma voz, expresa sus mismas ideas y con los mismos gestos. Personajes en distintos grados de miseria en situaciones a veces absurdas, a veces tristes, siempre divertidas. Quedé con ganas de más.
January 9, 2012
My unchanged for so many years love for Bukowski slowly starts to worry me and makes me think that i really have bad taste when it comes to man. I guess love really is blind....
November 27, 2014
oh you dirty old man, we love you!
October 31, 2015
Short stories in this were mostly great.
But the poetry in this felt mostly like filler. Luckily there wasn't much of it, only two or three poems in between most of the stories.
But the poetry in this felt mostly like filler. Luckily there wasn't much of it, only two or three poems in between most of the stories.
October 13, 2018
Cuentos un poco flojos. Y la mayoría sobre temas que realmente me aburren: los deportes y las carreras de caballos. Hay algunos que zafan, pero son una minoría.
March 28, 2023
Bukowski blijft een van mijn literaire helden. Zijn rauwe en directe stijl zorgt ervoor dat zijn romans, zijn verhalenbundels en zelfs gedichtbundels vaker wel dan geen pageturners zijn. Al zijn boeken zijn een herhaling van dezelfde onderwerpen. Het is vrijwel altijd autobiografisch en gaat veelal over drank, vrouwen en gokken in combinatie met een gebrek aan geld en ambitie. Desondanks verveelt het mij nog steeds niet.
Dit boek is een verzameling van korte verhalen en gedichten. Hoewel zijn stijl en ritme het best aankomt in de Engelse taal, kan ik nog steeds enorm genieten van zijn vertaalde romans en korte verhalen. In deze uitgaven lees ik voor het eerst ook vertaalde gedichten en daar beleef ik helaas weinig plezier aan. Zonde, want in het Engels zijn het juist zijn gedichten die mij pakken om zijn eigenaardige stijl.
Het kan er ook mee te maken hebben dat dit boek geschreven is in een periode dat ook Bukowski de computer omarmde. Als ik kenners mag geloven is hij toen, als het om gedichten gaat, helemaal losgegaan. Zo is de kwantiteit van zijn gedichten in de laatste jaren van zijn leven schijnbaar enorm omhooggegaan maar hebben zijn gedichten flink op kwaliteit ingeleverd.
Dit boek is een verzameling van korte verhalen en gedichten. Hoewel zijn stijl en ritme het best aankomt in de Engelse taal, kan ik nog steeds enorm genieten van zijn vertaalde romans en korte verhalen. In deze uitgaven lees ik voor het eerst ook vertaalde gedichten en daar beleef ik helaas weinig plezier aan. Zonde, want in het Engels zijn het juist zijn gedichten die mij pakken om zijn eigenaardige stijl.
Het kan er ook mee te maken hebben dat dit boek geschreven is in een periode dat ook Bukowski de computer omarmde. Als ik kenners mag geloven is hij toen, als het om gedichten gaat, helemaal losgegaan. Zo is de kwantiteit van zijn gedichten in de laatste jaren van zijn leven schijnbaar enorm omhooggegaan maar hebben zijn gedichten flink op kwaliteit ingeleverd.
Read
September 19, 2025It's nice to sit and read Bukowski's thoughts after dinner, perhaps with some wine. He is someone who got lucky, as far as I'm concerned. This is my first time reading any of his collected poetry, and although I know his more famous pieces, I find most of it to be prose with wider margins. I see that as a trickster move more than innovation, harkening back to a time when being a bad person was a good career move.
I might prefer Bukowski's confidence in later years to his earlier flash-in-the-pan scenes. A good writer can make anything interesting, but it also feels like hanging out with him rather than preparing for some sort of plot twist, sleight of hand, or gimmick.
A series of anecdotes that have graduated from journal entries is what this book feels like. "The Captain Is Out To Lunch..." is the only official "diary" type of book that Bukowski did, and I might enjoy that one a bit more.
Still, it's clear that some of this stuff was written in one night, for good or ill, and although I don't recall anything being particularly transcendent, there is a vicarious freedom that permeates Bukowski's writing that I do enjoy.
I might prefer Bukowski's confidence in later years to his earlier flash-in-the-pan scenes. A good writer can make anything interesting, but it also feels like hanging out with him rather than preparing for some sort of plot twist, sleight of hand, or gimmick.
A series of anecdotes that have graduated from journal entries is what this book feels like. "The Captain Is Out To Lunch..." is the only official "diary" type of book that Bukowski did, and I might enjoy that one a bit more.
Still, it's clear that some of this stuff was written in one night, for good or ill, and although I don't recall anything being particularly transcendent, there is a vicarious freedom that permeates Bukowski's writing that I do enjoy.
March 1, 2020
Oh, Bukowski, alguna vez dejarás de maravillarme con cada lectura tuya?
A pesar de ser un hijo de puta, Bukowski es uno de los últimos escritores malditos y el más representativo del realismo sucio. ¿Por qué? ¿Por qué idolatramos aun hombre tan maldito como este?
Su escritura, su manera de retratar las cosas que toca la vulgaridad y el cinismo en su máxima expresión es lo que nos deja impresionados.
No creo que haya nadie que pueda retratar mejor la desesperación y falta de esperanza de la gente, lo que es vivir en lo más abajo del agujero, hasta el fondo del basurero, en donde a nadie le importas y nadie te presta atención.
Esta pequeña colección de relatos de Bukowski es oro puro. Los de baseball no me gustaron tanto porque había muchas cosas que no comprendía al no entender bien el deporte, sin embargo, por lo que representa sé que es una parte importante de la cultura estadounidense.
Siempre recomiendo leer a Bukowksi, aunque sea para sentirte mejor de no tener una vida tan miserable como aquellas que describe.
A pesar de ser un hijo de puta, Bukowski es uno de los últimos escritores malditos y el más representativo del realismo sucio. ¿Por qué? ¿Por qué idolatramos aun hombre tan maldito como este?
Su escritura, su manera de retratar las cosas que toca la vulgaridad y el cinismo en su máxima expresión es lo que nos deja impresionados.
No creo que haya nadie que pueda retratar mejor la desesperación y falta de esperanza de la gente, lo que es vivir en lo más abajo del agujero, hasta el fondo del basurero, en donde a nadie le importas y nadie te presta atención.
Esta pequeña colección de relatos de Bukowski es oro puro. Los de baseball no me gustaron tanto porque había muchas cosas que no comprendía al no entender bien el deporte, sin embargo, por lo que representa sé que es una parte importante de la cultura estadounidense.
Siempre recomiendo leer a Bukowksi, aunque sea para sentirte mejor de no tener una vida tan miserable como aquellas que describe.
October 17, 2025
Not one of Hank’s finest, but still: it’s always nice to spend some time with the old man.
Bukowski is passé at this point, I’m sure. And that makes sense in a lot of ways. But the flip side of that is that it’s not hard to imagine a resurgence at some point soon. His bruised cynicism about humanity certainly seems like a fine match for this, our most ridiculous and violent and deranged era. There’s nothing about America in 2025 that would’ve surprised him. Why would it? He is, I would argue, our most American writer: he’s well acquainted with all of our most vulgar vices, but is also (ironically, considering how much of our culture he spent so much of his life rejecting) the archetypal self-made man, the arc of his life an ode to perseverance, grit, and all of those vaguely Protestant-work-ethic sounding qualities. There is hope to be found in that, even if it’s a perverse hope.
Anyway. Hank was 70 when this one was published, so he was well-ensconced in San Pedro with Linda Lee, writing poems about going to the dentist and watering his lawn. Sure, the fire of his madder, earlier stuff is mostly embers at this point. But he still manages to get a couple of decent shots across the bow. I’m older now, too. Old enough to appreciate the quiet spirit of reflection present in these poems, at least. May you be lucky enough to wind down your days like Hank, typing into oblivion, “the last year of your life rushing toward you/ like a rifle shot.”
3.5 stars
Bukowski is passé at this point, I’m sure. And that makes sense in a lot of ways. But the flip side of that is that it’s not hard to imagine a resurgence at some point soon. His bruised cynicism about humanity certainly seems like a fine match for this, our most ridiculous and violent and deranged era. There’s nothing about America in 2025 that would’ve surprised him. Why would it? He is, I would argue, our most American writer: he’s well acquainted with all of our most vulgar vices, but is also (ironically, considering how much of our culture he spent so much of his life rejecting) the archetypal self-made man, the arc of his life an ode to perseverance, grit, and all of those vaguely Protestant-work-ethic sounding qualities. There is hope to be found in that, even if it’s a perverse hope.
Anyway. Hank was 70 when this one was published, so he was well-ensconced in San Pedro with Linda Lee, writing poems about going to the dentist and watering his lawn. Sure, the fire of his madder, earlier stuff is mostly embers at this point. But he still manages to get a couple of decent shots across the bow. I’m older now, too. Old enough to appreciate the quiet spirit of reflection present in these poems, at least. May you be lucky enough to wind down your days like Hank, typing into oblivion, “the last year of your life rushing toward you/ like a rifle shot.”
3.5 stars
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September 23, 2020Story time: coming back from uni and stopping by at the bookstore back in December 2018, I got this book of Bukowski along with Eco's How to Write a Thesis. This one I started reading in the spring of 2019 and as soon as I was about 50 pages into it I carefully placed the bookmark and paused since I went to a studying spree for school purposes.
From then on I have developed the weirdest relationship with it; I'd been reading some big parts at times, then I would leave it for entire months, then come back to it, always enjoying it, but never quite seem to finish it.
Well, finally I did, and now I can let this little personal fact about it live on on my review. The aftermath is that Bukowski always makes sense. And as the years go by and the thrill of first discovering him has more or less faded, I can still realise the mastery of his art.
From then on I have developed the weirdest relationship with it; I'd been reading some big parts at times, then I would leave it for entire months, then come back to it, always enjoying it, but never quite seem to finish it.
Well, finally I did, and now I can let this little personal fact about it live on on my review. The aftermath is that Bukowski always makes sense. And as the years go by and the thrill of first discovering him has more or less faded, I can still realise the mastery of his art.
April 29, 2025
No me ha encantado el libro. Para empezar no soy muy fan de los libros de relatos y aparte los que se contienen en este libro se me han hecho un poco repetitivos, además de que son muy cortitos como para explorar algo en ellos. También hay que decir que suelen estar plagados de los mismos elementos comunes, por lo que cuando ya has leído unos cuantos no hay mucho que te incentive para seguir leyendo. Estos elementos comunes son el alcohol, drogas, misoginia y gente miserable.
Sí que tengo que admitir que Bukowski escribe bien, y consigue en determinados pasajes transmitir lo que quiere, dejándote a su merced. Pero también se nota que es un poco pesado y de vez en cuando se viene muy arriba y glorifica su vida decadente y patética hasta el exceso de llegar a ser grotesco.
Mis relatos favoritos de este libro han sido: Hijo de Satanás, Camus, Un día, Solo en la cumbre y El ganador.
Sí que tengo que admitir que Bukowski escribe bien, y consigue en determinados pasajes transmitir lo que quiere, dejándote a su merced. Pero también se nota que es un poco pesado y de vez en cuando se viene muy arriba y glorifica su vida decadente y patética hasta el exceso de llegar a ser grotesco.
Mis relatos favoritos de este libro han sido: Hijo de Satanás, Camus, Un día, Solo en la cumbre y El ganador.
December 11, 2019
Misántropo, cínico, ácido, destructivo... cruel, incluso. Todo esto es Bukowski y todo esto es este libro. Pero también es hilarante, en su capacidad de provocarte carcajadas. También es tierno en la esperanza que se huele tras la ironía. También es autocrítico, en la destrucción y burla del propio ego. Pero, sobre todo, es afilado como una navaja en la manera de destripar y criticar todo lo que le rodea en su sociedad contemporánea. Nadie como él para mostrarnos la parte más directamente abyecta de la esencia del ser humano.
February 19, 2023
Me ha resultado un libro muy curioso a la vez que oscuro. No tengo una opinión clara.
Soy consciente de que este tipo de relatos reflejan de la mejor manera la forma de escribir de este autor y a pesar de que no se me ha hecho pesado leerlo, no creo que vuelva a leer ( por ahora ) algo de este autor ya que me ha parecido bastante desagradable.
Algunos relatos reflejan de una manera muy triste la realidad y me dejaban bastante mal sabor de boca. Aún así interesante y recomiendo leerlo.
Soy consciente de que este tipo de relatos reflejan de la mejor manera la forma de escribir de este autor y a pesar de que no se me ha hecho pesado leerlo, no creo que vuelva a leer ( por ahora ) algo de este autor ya que me ha parecido bastante desagradable.
Algunos relatos reflejan de una manera muy triste la realidad y me dejaban bastante mal sabor de boca. Aún así interesante y recomiendo leerlo.
September 29, 2019
Una de mis recopilaciones favoritas de Bukowski. Tiene algunos relatos excelentes, de la última parte de su vida. Mi favorito es el titulado "Los escritores" donde habla de su relación con otros escritores de su generación, pero tiene otros dos o tres que son brutalmente buenos.
niet-uitgelezen
April 2, 2019Moest terug naar de bibliotheek. Er zitten wel zeker goeie verhalen tussen. De poëzie kon me iets minder boeien.
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