Charles Bukowski

by McCutcheon
The Buk
Bukowski is not my favorite writer but I think his literary value is diluted by the pop mystique that hangs over his head. Mind you, that is a flawed head with a bulbous nose and pock marked face. Charles has written some great short stories, poetry and had many attempts at the novel. His work no longer has value in true literature because of all the young hipsters who emulate the man. It’s not his fault. You can’t choose your audience. But becoming famous saved Charles from drinking himself to death. And it also got him laid. That is fucked up. But in a different way.

Charles lived to the ripe old age of seventy-three. A couple of years short of his dream age. (Charles always wanted to be eighty and fuck a twenty year old girl.) He lived to see Hollywood make a film of his life, called Barfly. In the movie, Mickey Rourke, who played Charles, would drink (of course), get into fights, fuck, and spout prose that was shallow-deep and in no way like the writing Bukowski wrote in real life.

He also got to visit his homeland Germany.
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