A German-born American poet, novelist and short story writer, Henry Charles Bukowski (born as Heinrich Karl Bukowski). His writing was influenced by the social, cultural and economic atmosphere of his hometown of Los Angeles. It is marked by an emphasis on poor Americans' ordinary lives, 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, and... finally published more than 60 books. Charles Bukowski was the only child of an American soldier and a German mother. He came to the U.S. with his family at the age of three and grew up in Los Angeles. From 1939 to 1941, he attended Los Angeles City College, then left school and moved to become a writer in New York City. At this time, his lack of publishing success caused him to give up writing in 1946 and spurred a ten-year heavy drinking stint. He decided to take up writing again after he had developed a bleeding ulcer. He worked a wide range of jobs to support his writing, including dishwasher, truck driver and loader, mail carrier, guard, station attendant, stock boy, warehouse worker, shipping clerk, post office clerk, parking attendant, Red Cross orderly, and elevator operator. He also worked in a dog biscuit factory, a slaughterhouse, a cake and cookie factory, and hung posters on New York City subways. When he was twenty-four, Bukowski published his first story and started writing poetry at the age of thirty-five. His first poetry book was published in 1959; he went on to publish more than forty-five poetry and prose books, including Pulp (1994), Screams from the Balcony (1993), and The Last Night of Earth Poems (1992).READ MORE
startling! such determination in the dull and uninspired and the copyists. they never lose the fierce gratitude for their uneventfulness, nor do they forget to laugh at the wit of slugs; as a study in diluted senses they'd make any pharaoh cough up his beans; in music they prefer the monotony of dripping faucets; in love and sex they prefer each other and therefore compound the problem; the energy with which they propel their uselessness (without any self-doubt) toward worthless goals is as magnificent as cow shit. they produce novels, children, death, freeways, cities, wars, wealth, poverty, politicians and total areas of grandiose waste; it's as if the whole world is wrapped in dirty bandages.
it's best to take walks late at night. it's best to do your business only on Mondays and Tuesdays.
it's best to sit in a small room with the shades down and wait.
the strongest men are the fewest and the strongest women die alone too.
I guess I´m too used to sitting in a small room and making words do a few things. I see enough of humanity at the racetracks, the supermarkets, gas stations, freeways, cafes, etc. This can´t be helped. But I feel like kicking myself in the ass when I go to gatherings, even if the drinks are free. It never works for me. I´ve got enough clay to play with. People empty me. I have to get away to refill. I´m what´s best for me, sitting here slouched, smoking a beedie and watching this creen flash the words. Seldom do you meet a rare or interesting person. It´s more than galling, it´s a fucking constant shock. It´s making a god-damned grouch out of me. Anybody can be a god-damned grouch and most are. Help!