sifting through the madness for the word, the line, the way

by Charles Bukowski

One of the most recognizable poets of the last century, Charles Bukowski is simultaneously a common man and an icon of urban depravity. He uses strong, blunt language to describe life as he lives it, and through it all charts the mutations of morality in modern America.

Sifting Through the Madness for the Word, the Line, the Way is a treasure trove of confessional poetry written towards then end of Bukowski’s life.  With the overhang of failing health and waning fame, he reflects on his travels, his gambling and drinking, working, not working, sex and love, eating, cats, and more.

Sifting Through is Bukowski at his most meditative – published posthumously, it’s completely non-performative, and gets to the heart of Bukowski’s lifelong pursuit of natural language and raw honesty.

We recommend you read this as Bukowski by sifting through the madness for what hits you as the word, the line, the way.

Genres: Poetry, Fiction, Literature, Classics, American, The United States Of America, Collections

420 pages, Kindle Edition

First published December 24, 2002

About the author

Henry Charles Bukowski (born as Heinrich Karl Bukowski) was a German-born American poet, novelist and short story writer. His writing was influenced by the social, cultural and economic ambience of his home city of Los Angeles.It is marked by an emphasis on the ordinary lives of poor Americans, the act of writing, alcohol, relationships with women and the drudgery of work. Bukowski wrote thousands of poems, hundreds of short stories and six novels, eventually publishing over sixty books

Charles Bukowski was the only child of an American soldier and a German mother. At the age of three, he came with his family to the United States and grew up in Los Angeles. He attended Los Angeles City College from 1939 to 1941, then left school and moved to New York City to become a writer. His lack of publishing success at this time caused him to give up writing in 1946 and spurred a ten-year stint of heavy drinking. After he developed a bleeding ulcer, he decided to take up writing again. He worked a wide range of jobs to support his writing, including dishwasher, truck driver and loader, mail carrier, guard, gas station attendant, stock boy, warehouse worker, shipping clerk, post office clerk, parking lot attendant, Red Cross orderly, and elevator operator. He also worked in a dog biscuit factory, a slaughterhouse, a cake and cookie factory, and he hung posters in New York City subways.

Bukowski published his first story when he was twenty-four and began writing poetry at the age of thirty-five. His first book of poetry was published in 1959; he went on to publish more than forty-five books of poetry and prose, including Pulp (1994), Screams from the Balcony (1993), and The Last Night of the Earth Poems (1992).

He died of leukemia in San Pedro on March 9, 1994.

Reviews

[Steven Godin · Rating 5 out of 5]

I knew a lady who once lived with Hemingway.
I knew a lady who claimed to have screwed Ezra Pound.
Sartre invited me to visit him in Paris but I was too stupid to
accept.
Caresse Crosby of Black Sun Press wrote me from Italy.
Henry Miller's son wrote that I was a better writer than his
father.
I drank wine with John Fante.
but none of this matters at all except in a romantic sort of
way.
some day they'll be talking about me:
"Chinaski wrote me a letter."
I saw Chinaski at the racetrack."
I watched Chinaski wash his car."
all absolute nonsence.
meanwhile, some wild-eyed young man
alone and unknown in a room
will be writing things that will make you forget
everybody else
except maybe the young man to
follow after
him.

****

she was really mad

I love you, she said,
and spit in a bowl of
jello
put it in the
refrigerator
and said,
you can eat that later
for dinner!

then she was gone
like a whirlwind
out the door
in a rush of angry
skirt.

****

there's nothing like driving the
hairpin curves on the Pasadena Freeway at 85
m.p.h.
hung over
checking the rearview mirror for officers of the
law
while peeling and eating tangerines that
sometimes
choke you with their
pulp, acid, seeds
as
your eyes fill with tears
your vision blurs
and you drive from memory
and on instinct
until
things get clear again.
finally you reach Santa Anita, that most beautiful
track,
and glide into the parking lot,
get
out, lock it, walk
in.

being 68 years old feels better than
30.
especially 30, that was the most depressing
birthday: you figured then that the gamble had been
lost.

what an awful
mistake you made then

38 years ago, about the time when they built
the
Pasadena Freeway.

[Sarah · Rating 5 out of 5]

Yes. See, Charles knew exactly what I needed...THIS is what I needed...THIS. WHAT FOLLOWS. NOW.

nobody but you

nobody can save you but
yourself.
you will be put again and again
into nearly impossible
situations.
they will attempt again and again
through subterfuge, guise and
force
to make you submit, quit and /or die quietly
inside.
nobody can save you but
yourself
and it will be easy enough to fail
so very easily
but don’t, don’t, don’t.
just watch them.
listen to them.
do you want to be like that?
a faceless, mindless, heartless
being?
do you want to experience
death before death?
nobody can save you but
yourself
and you’re worth saving.
it’s a war not easily won
but if anything is worth winning then
this is it.
think about it.
think about saving your self.
your spiritual self.
your gut self.
your singing magical self and
your beautiful self.
save it.
don’t join the dead-in-spirit.
maintain your self
with humor and grace
and finally
if necessary
wager your self as you struggle,
damn the odds, damn
the price.
only you can save your
self.
do it! do it!
then you’ll know exactly what
I am talking about.

Thank you, Charles. Thank you. What a relief.

[Peycho Kanev · Rating 4 out of 5]

Bukowski is one of the most recognizable names in contemporary American poetry, probably so popular because his poems are so easy to read. He uses strong, simple language, raw pessimistic tone and blunt honesty to describe everything from feeding his cats to the state of morality in modern America. This collection confirms one more aspect of Bukowski's body of poetic work, produced, as he writes in a work called "found poems," at the rate of ten or twelve poems a night: namely, that the primary way we encounter him comes through the unvarying and invariable properties of the whole rather than through special and memorable individual pieces of writing.
The Los Angeles Times Book Review has rightly noted “Wordsworth, Whitman, William Carlos Williams and the Beats in their respective generations moved poetry toward a more natural language. Bukowski moved it a little farther.”

so you want to be a writer?

if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.


if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,
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.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

[Diana Marie · Rating 4 out of 5]

"Why do we embroider everything we say
With special emphasis

When all we really need to do
Is simply say what
Needs to be said?"

This is one of the reasons why I enjoyed reading Bukowski's poetry. The pretension isn't there, the frills and things to impress aren't there - just this "raw honesty" that is often used to describe him. It felt real to me and pure - even if I wasn't impressed by some of the subject matter or stories. It doesn't matter, he says it anyways, and that's what I like about it.

"Sometimes it seems that only the disabled
And insane like to read my books,
The ones who can’t quite grasp
Chaucer."

A similar thought to this crossed my mind as I was reading this book. Why is this guy talking and putting it into poetry form, wasting all this page space? Yet, once I crossed this part, it didn't bother me anymore - he realized it. He sees his flaws, he's not fooling anyone and he owns it. His wit, insight, and blunt honesty - his simply put together words of profound wisdom. His self-reflections and personal critiques make his flaws become endearing - all inspired by life's mischief.

[d4]

I was unimpressed with 90% of the Bukowski I've read before I self-identified as feminist. Finishing the last half of this collection was cringe-worthy.

But I liked this poem:

"little poem"

little sun little moon little dog
and a little to eat and a little to love
and a little to live for

in a little room
filled with little
mice
who gnaw and dance and run while I sleep
waiting for a little death
in the middle of a little morning

in a little city
in a little state
my little mother dead
my little father dead
in a little cemetery somewhere.

I have only
a little time
to tell you this:

watch out for
little death when he comes running

but like all the billions of little deaths
it will finally mean nothing and everything:

all your little tears burning like the dove,
wasted.

[KaBbage]

Why are men so…dangerous

[Ju$tin · Rating 5 out of 5]

And another greatgreatgreat poetry collection by bukowski, don't hesitate picking this one up

[Dave Schaafsma · Rating 3 out of 5]

150 poems, 400 posthumous pages, from the wildly, sometimes humorously anti-academic poet/icon of depravity, writing in his seventies, looking back at his crazy life of debauchery from the perspective of failing health, wealth, prosperity, fame. Recalling the past, often in arrogance, in a foul mood, trashing everyone along the way...and yet he comes off as down to earth, a common man, a drunken, whoring and race track kinda guy til the end... I prefer the earlier Bukowski who was living the life rather than reporting back on it, and his poems about his present life are not as interesting as his past, but the newer ones still have something about them that gets me to turn the pages. There's little really good writing here, but there's this narrative voice that is still so compelling that so many people still read and love, and I liked it, a kind of escape from the academic, the pose, the affected. He just tells us to write as he does. And yes, there's enough good stuff here to make you remember him at his wildest and best.

[Diāna · Rating 3 out of 5]

Reading Bukowski is like going through a pile of trash, knowing that there must be something. And there was:
“SO YOU WANT TO BE A WRITER?”
“About competition”
“Unblinking grief”
“The joke is on the sun”
“Who needs it?”
“The way things are”
“Remember this”
“Little poem”
“Where was I?”
“Heads without faces, seen in all the places”
“The simple truth”
“Here and now”
“Displaced”
“Escapade”
“Regrets of a sort”
“Unclassical symphony”
“At last”
“Misbegotten paradise”
“NOBODY BUT YOU”

[Dane Cobain · Rating 5 out of 5]

This book is one of several poetry collections that were edited together by John Martin, Bukowski’s long-term editor, from a ream of material that he left behind to be published after his death. I actually like most of this more recently published stuff the most, in part because I think he got better with age and in part because I think he left some of his most personal stuff to be published after he was gone.

For the first time ever, I actually tabbed this collection with sticky labels so that I could go back to some of the poems for my video review. That also means that I can spend the rest of this review telling you about some of my favourites. Right off the bat, it kicks things off with So You Want To Be A Writer?, a poem that I’ve seen quoted to death elsewhere by people who’ve searched for “writing quotes” and ended up finding a random Bukowski poem. But it’s a good one.

The Great Escape was another good one, which was about crabs escaping from a bucket and which reflected Bukowski’s own employment at the post office. One Step Removed was about famous writers and the groupies they attract, and A Mechanical Lazarus is about his trusty IBM typewriter which refused to die. A Sickness was also about writers, but it focused more on how they always seem to end up going insane or committing suicide.

Later we have poems about women (Dream Girl) and drinking (Who Needs It?), both of which are pretty much required subjects for a Bukowski collection, but there are plenty of other subject matters on offer too. It’s also split up into sections, which mainly act as dividers to keep the flow of the book going rather than as any official categorisations, but they do somehow add a little something to the feel of the book by highlighting specific lines.

All in all, if you’ve read Bukowski’s work before then you pretty much know what to expect, and if you haven’t then you ought to get started. And this could be just the book to help you with that. Go ahead and buy it.

[Δαμιανός Λαουνάρος · Rating 5 out of 5]

Πρώτο βιβλίο της χρονιάς με μια ασφαλή επιλογή για εμένα. Μπουκόφσκι να τον πιεις στο ποτήρι σε ένα βιβλίο που το έψαχνα καιρό στα μεταχειρισμένα μιας κι έχει εξαντληθεί! Αν καταφέρετε να το βρείτε κι εσείς μην διστάσετε να το πάρετε. Θα σας ανταμείψει...

[bookyfox ♡ · Rating 4 out of 5]

świetna.

[Eugenio · Rating 5 out of 5]

Increíble!! Bukowski me encantó, no lo conocía hasta leer este poemario brutal y me quedé fascinado. Poesía nueva para mí, una nueva concepción por la misma. Sé que será inspiración tangible para siempre.

[Khadija · Rating 5 out of 5]

It's worth picking up. There are a lot of great poems in this collection

[Georgia · Rating 4 out of 5]

misbegotten paradise

the bad days and the bad nights now come too
often,
the old dream of having a few easy
years before death–
that dream vanished as the other dreams
have.
too bad, too bad, too bad.
from the beginning, through the
middle years and up to the
end:
too bad, too bad, too bad.

there were moments,
sparkles of hope
but they quickly dissolved
back into the same old
formula:
the stink of reality.

even when luck was
there and life danced in the
flesh,
we knew the stay
would be short.

too bad, too bad, too bad.

we wanted more than
there could ever be:
women of love and
laughter,
nights wild enough for the
tiger,
we wanted days that
strolled through
life
with some grace,
a bit of
meaning,
a plausible use,
not something
just to
waste,
but something to
remember,
something with which to
poke death
in the gut.

too bad, too bad, too bad.

in the totality of
all things, of course,
our petty agony is
stupid
and vain
but I feel that our
dreams were
not.

and we are not alone.
the relentless factors are
not a personal
vendetta against a single self.

others feel the same
searing
disorder,
go mad, suicide, go
dull, run stricken to
imaginary
gods,
or go drunk, go drugged,
go naturally
silly,
disappear into the mass of
nothingness
we call families,
cities,
countries

but fate is not entirely
to blame.
we have wasted
our chances,
we have strangled
our own hearts.


too bad, too bad, too bad.


now we are the citizens of
nothing.

the sun
itself
knows
the sad truth of
how we surrendered
our lives
and deaths
to simple
ritual,
useless
craven
ritual,
and then
slinking away
from the face of
glory,
turning our dreams into
dung,
how we said
no, no, no, no,
to the most beautiful
YES
ever uttered:

life
itself.

[Jeanea · Rating 4 out of 5]

It was a spectacle to observe Bukowski’s psyche as he approaches death and reflects on his career. He owns being damnable and unlovable, but still I find myself being drawn to the honesty with which he describes his own sadness, a sadness that looks a lot like each of our own. At times he’s defeated, accepting no joy out of life.

“It’s true: pain and suffering helps to create what we call art. Given the choice I’d never choose this damn pain and suffering for myself but somehow it finds me as the royalties continue to roll on in.”

“Watch out for little death when he comes running but like all the billions of little deaths it will finally mean nothing and everything.”

But towards the end of the book, he seems to accept that the lows of life do not detract from the highs of life; in fact they may make them that much higher. He even waxes Death Positive as he makes peace with his lot in life.

“Yes, there is a peaceable place to be found in this unending war we call life.”

“In the totality of all things, of course, our petty agony is stupid and vain but I feel that our dreams were not.”

“But somehow in my demented state I became my own hero.”

Bukowski invites you to contemplate your own mortality, but then he reminds you why people hate him as he lavishes in his white guilt, and in one particular poem, recounts an act of sexual violence.

How such a vile person can be so tender and relatable is not a topic I can cover in this review, but I’ll be reflecting on it for awhile now.

[Charlatan · Rating 3 out of 5]

This is my second attempt at reading bukowski, first time was traumatising and this one was a little bit... underwhelming? The poems get quite repetitive: women, drinking, describing the cheap, precarious settings where the scenarios happen. I'm not familiar with this poetry style and I didn't feel mesmerised while reading this book, I was like "meh", just getting through it.

I myself lead a miserable life just like you Chinaski, so I'm not too empathetic or shocked by the awful things you've encountered. Some people will say I'm not smart enough to grasp the genius of Bukowski and they might be right. I'd rather read something that captivates me than force myself to enjoy something just because it is "raw and deep".

This is not to say I won't try and read some more of his work. But that'll be for another day.

[Airidas · Rating 3 out of 5]

Knygos anotacija skelbia, jog jos turinys surinktas ir išleistas jau po autoriaus mirties. Ir iš tiesų - jutiminė knygos temperatūra - mirtis. Su tuo sutinka ir pats autorius. Tai taryt vienas iš paskutiniųjų Činaskio sagos skyrių. Poezija kalbanti prozos balsu. Mirtis. Laukimas. Susitaikymas.

Juokinga. Vulgaru. Kartu. Juokinga. Liūdna.


Gyvenimas, kaip hipodromas. Galų gale, kuris žirgas laimi? Mirtis, ar tas, kuris pasitinka ją, kaip seną bičiulį? Galbūt delfinas.

[Zøfia 987 · Rating 2 out of 5]

I feel like I need to add some words to my rating. I hate to say that but for the most part I was disappointed. Most of the poems were not for me. Some of them were just obnoxious or meaningless in my opinion. But I need to admit that some of them were really good and these ones really kept me going. I understand what kind of person was Bukowski and I like certain things in certain poems but unfortunately that was not enough and like I said majority of the poems just weren’t in line with something I personally am looking for in poetry. Would I recommend his poems? Yes, but only few of them

[Mike Zone · Rating 4 out of 5]

Not my favorite posthumous collection of Bukowski's work...that title belongs to WHAT MATTERS MOST IS HOW YOU WALK THROUGH THE FIRE..but SIFTING THROUGH MADNESS is underrated and there's still plenty to laugh, learn, adore and relate to between the pages.

[Evan · Rating 4 out of 5]

Bukowski er ikke for alle men han er for meg

[Tracy Alain · Rating 4 out of 5]

4 1/2

[Samuel Hud Gardella · Rating 4 out of 5]

Finally a full Bukowski book where a majority of the writing is about life, aging, and perspective instead of scratching your ass

[Alison · Rating 4 out of 5]

To be quite honest, this was a slow burn for me. Once I was finally submerged, I enjoyed it, but man was it a slow start! This was my first reading of anything by Bukowski. I really wondered whether Bukowski would actually want these published in life. Some of them seem subpar.

[Clare Walker · Rating 5 out of 5]

Found by chance in a Canadian library. New favourite.

[Rena Sherwood · Rating 5 out of 5]

I think I'm going to stop writing poetry because I could never write anything better than Bukowski. I read the library's copy and then a few years later just had to buy my own copy in 2016 because I could not get some of the poems out of my head. That and most of my library's Bukowski stuff has been stolen.



I have no idea why this year I've yearned to read Bukowski more than any other author. As I get older I find that he's the only writer who is writing about the reality I find myself stuck in. Not the reality I thought I was going to live in when I was young and virginal and stupid or the reality I wish would come to pass someday but what is happening NOW (even 12 years after his death). He's the best therapist I've ever had.

[Michelle · Rating 4 out of 5]

Bukowski certainly knew how to write poetry, and it’s shown to stunning effect in this collection. He always has an air of a gritty, dirty man who doesn’t really understand that women aren’t meant to be his caretaker, but that aside, I deeply enjoy his writing style and his turn of phrase. It’s good poetry, but also just kind of frustrating to read at the same time, because I spend some of the poems going “well this is just weird vibes for this one.”

Still, Bukowski is one of the greats for a reason, and I think his poetry is very engrossing and even to a degree highly enjoyable. There’s some real gems in here. You really do feel like you’re sifting to find them among the weirder things in this collection.

[Carrie · Rating 3 out of 5]

Bukowski's raw and raunchy poetic ramblings about his drunken, prostitute-filled life on skid row LA is the opposite of what I thought I'd ever like. He tells it like it is and does not candy coat. His repulsive life style is redeemed with his many ode's to his one true love, Jane. For me, one who will hopefully never live the life that Bukowski writes about, I actually enjoy taking a mental romp down those harrowing streets and living for a few poems that dirty life, relishing the feeling that I'm doing something forbidden.

[Melanie Medved · Rating 5 out of 5]

The last 50 pages of this book.... I just don't have any words to express the understanding I felt... Relating to old dead poets and not many other people is usually my thing, anyway, but this took it to a whole new level. It's one of his best volumes, his insights are full of wisdom, existential thoughts, and just how it is to be beaten down by life but still get up time and time again. I highly recommend it to anyone who is in a "misery loves company" mood or having an existential crisis of some kind. It helps far more than therapy or xanax.

[Cupid♡ · Rating 5 out of 5]

What a guy. The rawness of the writing, the ease of the poetry (I had always thought good quality poetry to be almost impossible to read therefore rendering it unenjoyable), the cynicism and the utter realism of how shitty and simple life can be absolutely grasped me. An ex lover introduced me to Bukowski and I finally got around to seeing what he's all about. Each poem took me into a little movie - like a limited series in my mind. He made me laugh a lot, also made me feel bad for him, and made me reflect on what the fuck I'm doing with my life. I'm excited to read more of his pieces.