| Title | : | Notes of a Dirty Old Man |
| Author | : | |
| Rating | : | |
| ISBN | : | - |
| Language | : | English |
| Format Type | : | Paperback |
| Number of Pages | : | 204 |
| Publication | : | First published January 1, 1969 |
Notes of a Dirty Old Man Reviews
-
I don’t write reviews.
Throughout my years of indoctrination, I was warned away from Bukowski. It wasn’t healthy for young strong American feminist brain-dead consumers to be reading the works of uhm … that woman-hating guy. Oddly enough, academia and peer(pressure) groups didn’t find Burroughs to be a problem at that time. Why am I trying to reason out psychopaths’ agendas…
I broke programming, (honestly it never worked too well on me), but I forgot to amend my overlooking of Bukowski. I found a copy of this book in the English language section of my local book shop so I thought I’d give it a try.
He used language like a painter of souls. Words were blood from his heart. Liquid, burning prose. Rantings from the mind of a real loner. I understand that on a deep level.
“I’ve seen too many intellectuals lately, I get very tired of the precious intellects who must speak diamonds every time they open their mouths. I get tired of battling for each space of air for the mind. That’s why I stayed away from people for so long and now that I am meeting people I find that I must return to my cave. There are other things beside the mind. There are insects and palm trees and pepper shakers and I’ll have a pepper shaker in my cave. So laugh.”
I don’t know if Bukowski is my style in general. Twenty years ago, I’d have loved it all. He was disgusting at times for sure. I don’t like poop references and Bukowski loved himself the scatological angle. The women stuff? A true misogynist? No, I didn’t get that feeling. He mentioned being “soft” as an insult to himself and others. Like he was always aware of what he should’ve been and how he wasn’t measuring up to those expectations. Drunk as a skunk, wishing for accidental suicide, how could such a guy be a great partner? All of his characters are equally grotesque. Was his writing self-therapy? Oh, I don’t know. It’s good, it’s gross, it’s INTERESTING.
“The people will always betray you.
Never trust the people.” -
Dear Charles Bukowski (may you rot in peace)
You had a way with words, and your powers of observation were not without an edge.
I quite liked your political statements, they showed that you after all used your intellect, what-ever-much was left of it in your intoxicated brain.
Your diary reminds me a bit of Celine, and maybe that was your intention, you were a man who had read a great deal.
I realise that you in your life have felt betrayed and not as valued a writer as you thought you deserved.
Regrettably this piece of apeshit does not add much to the value. History is filled with tales of men falling apart, finding only short-lasting pleasures in sex and drugs, and describing it in detail, as if anyone cared about yet another low-life writer.
Grammar-wise, there is something called “capital letter after punctuation” which you choose to neglect totally throughout your diary. This was very annoying, and frankly, you are not in position to set up your own grammar rules.
However, you did provoke a smile here and there, mostly when you were sober, and I will grant you 3 small stars for you many wordplays. -
I've never read any Bukowski that I've not enjoyed, he's such a brilliant writer that's so descriptive, he's able to take you back to a different era.
He's so vulgar sometimes which can be difficult for people to digest. He writes what we all are pretty much thinking but just to afraid to say it.
You either 'GET' him or you don't.
Me? I admire him, he makes writing seem so easy by the way he does it. Very influential.
Every time I read something by him he get's me laughing.
Great irreverent writing. -
Rating books with stars, like bars or restaurants or anything else is pretty silly.
This was a good book to read at night while drinking pints at pubs in Seattle. A collection of "articles" from a small(?) paper in Los Angeles (?), there's no apparent chronology or order of any kind to them. If there is, it's deep an intellectual.
And after all, an intellectual takes something simple and makes it complex, while an artist takes something complex and makes it simple. (Indirect book quote)
I'm reminded of
World War Z; each story is captivating, but you tire a little of the style. However just as you're tiring of the style, you get caught up in the next story.
I bought my dad a copy of this book... he told me it reminded him of Kerouac. That set me back a little as I never knew my father before his grumpiness and angst, his tiredness. Like a quote from Field of Dreams.
It's also a kind of life I appreciate, which, perhaps is easy to take the wrong way. Because life is for the living. -
Picture an alien. Let's say, for convenience sake, he has a completely human appearance. He crashed on earth a few hours ago and now wanders around in a city whose name is irrelevant, while trying to get used to the possibility of having to spend the rest of his life among humans. See him as he walks through a park absorbing images and smells, pausing every once in a while to take a closer look at whatever catches his attention. Starting to feel tired, he heads toward a bench. Just before he sits, he sees an object on the bench which recognizes as a book (let's again suppose that there are books on his planet and that he knows how to read). He picks it up and reads the title. "Notes of a Dirty Old Man" by Charles Bukowski. Having all the time in the world at his disposal, he starts reading. Half an hour passes and judging by the volume of the pages read and those left, we can assume he's halfway through. Now, if you look close, you'll see a certain expression on his face. Something which you recognize. Something that looks like disgust mixed with something else... Is it fear? Could it be fear? It's not a horror novel but yes, the more you look the more certain you become. It is fear. Now you see him lowering the book and looking straight ahead without really seeing much. It's the same look a convict might have. He closes the book and puts it back on the bench, at the exact same spot where he found it. Without taking his eyes from that nonexistent spot straight ahead, he reaches into the inside pocket of his coat and takes out a small object. It takes you a few seconds to realize it looks suspiciously similar to a handgun. It's probably the intergalactic equivalent of a beretta or something like that. Without even blinking he points the gun to his own head. A split second before he pulls the trigger, you see a tear just starting to trickle down his cheek. The one thought that pops in your mind as the image fades out is that his blood is red. Why is his blood red?
So, I guess I chose a somewhat extravagant way to say that if an alien's first touch with humanity was through this book, they'd totally kill themselves without thinking. Bukowski's stories paint a sick picture of everyday life. It seems like he strips reality of all that's good or pure, leaving only the rotten parts and throws it in your face. I think I would have liked it more when I was younger. However, there's something sickly poetic and poetically sick in this book which I found brilliant. -
You have to put Bukowski's sexism aside in order to enjoy his witty, often brutal tales from the American underground. Fun to read.
-
I had a Chuck Bukowski kick back in 2004. I moved out of my father's house the year prior, inadvertently isolated myself from most of my friends, got a soul-draining job in retail, and fallen into a bit of depression (which hardly anyone noticed). Though I hardly remember what I read, it spoke to me because I was in a toxic environment and Bukowski wrote with an honest intensity that was lacking in my life at the time.
-
This one is not for the faint of heart, the delicate, nor the easily offended, but if you are bold, daring, and curious, it is somewhat entertaining. The rants, stories, and prose poems collected here are uneven in quality, but enough of them held my interest so that I was able to finish reading "Notes of a Dirty Old Man." Bukowski is so unflinchingly honest about everything, so don't read this if you can't handle the truth. He also exposes things some might wish they had never seen--prostitution, murder, abuse, rape, suicide, suicide by alcoholism, even necrophilia. At times, I found the collection sophomoric, as though he were daring me to read on, and read on I did. While some of the stories successfully disturbed, there were also some priceless nuggets of wisdom in these pages about the futility of revolution and in this Socratic exchange, about how this world makes us all mad:
"you say you often feel this madness, what do you do when it comes upon you?"
"I write poetry."
"is poetry madness?"
"non-poetry is madness."
"what is madness?"
"madness is ugliness" (178).
And ugliness is a fact of life, as "Notes of a Dirty Old Man" shows, page after page, but I still couldn't stop reading, because in the end, every story leads to the same place, and this is it:
"man, I'd like to see a good pair of shoes on every man walking the streets and see that he gets a good piece of ass and a bellyfull of food too. Christ, the last piece of ass I've had was in 1966 and I've been jacking off ever since. and there just ain't no jackoff compared to that wonder hole" (69).
And indeed, the conflict that drives this book is the search to get laid by a woman (and for the next drink, but he never seems to be without that because drink is so much easier to acquire). So, all this time, I saw Bukowski as a misogynist, when in fact he is entranced by the power of the feminine, the great "wonder hole," or should I say "wonder whole" because it's only when he is getting laid or writing that he is somewhat at peace, whole, just like every other angry, frustrated male writer from Herman Melville to D.H. Lawrence, to J.R.R. Tolkien. One man's elusive white whale or magic ring is another man's coveted "wonder hole." In fact, I'm feeling pretty empowered as a woman after reading this. Seriously, though, the misogyny of the other Beat writers of his time makes Bukowski look like a pussycat (no pun intended). -
I was expecting something witty and intelligent, what I got was violent, crude, misogynistic and highly unpleasant, in the beginning at least. After a few tens of pages it settles down into a more, well mostly, stable narrative; almost like Bukowski wanted to put off the reader from delving further into the book. Beneath the vulgarity, self-loathing and woman hating, there is a glimmer of something. Perhaps it is, as the reviews on the back cover suggest, about the futility of life. It could be just the authors’ alter-egos desire for self harm. Maybe it is a commentary on the depths to which a down-and-out (or if you prefer a poor unfortunate who has had some bad breaks) will sink in order to avoid the real world. Or perhaps it is just the rabid ranting of an old fart of a poet trying to shock. It didn’t light my world on fire.
-
So dirty.
So drunky.
So angry.
Truly like an American Celine. -
Notes of a Dirty Old Man by Charles Bukowski is somewhat a autobiography of Bukowski himself but also his alter ego, Henry. This novel is mainly dealing with gabling, drinking and whoring which Bukowski is really good at, but what I find him to be even better at is his way with words and that does not show its true colours in this book.
I read for the prose when it comes to this author, so I was very disappointed to find a lack so enormous that I could hardly get through the book. Still, the writing style is very typical for Bukowski which gave some feeling homely. What I enjoyed the most about this book was the ending and not just because I could finally put the book down for good, but because of its optimism. Bukowski lead a very from-day-to-day life with very little content seen with modern society's eyes. -
This is Bukowski at his visceral best - a collection of his columns originally published in 'Open City' in the 1960s. By turns hilarious, disgusting, prosaic and profound, these vignettes of distilled humanity are somehow rendered all the more powerful for the squalor and the cheap sex and the shameless alcoholism. As much as these little stories are impossible to forget, however, it is Bukowski's wry observations on life that really shine through, such as 'The difference between a brave man and a coward is a coward thinks twice before jumping in the cage with a lion. The brave man doesn't know what a lion is...'
-
Title says it all.
-
It's been many years since I have returned to Henry Chinaski (Charles Bukowski) and through Notes of a Dirty Old Man, I was taken on yet another sometimes befuddling and sometimes profound reading experience. Bukowski mixes his prose with personal anecdotes and downright ridiculous absurdity, like a train wreck of thought. As he was churning these out for the Open City press, I gather Bukowski would have been writing many of the stories for his own amusement, just to see how far he could stretch a tale into the obscenely bizarre - as there are many in this collection that defy reality, but it is pertinent as it is free flowing intoxicating imagination peppered with some predicaments like the piece about Bukowski's parents and the Frozen Man that is quite introspectively sad. As with the story of Neal Cassady, there is something profoundly swift in the way it opens up the wounds of humanity, to drain the infection. As the title suggests, these are notes, and the man penning them is dirty minded and getting on in life. You can't argue with that.
Bukowski has morality and ethics, but they are measured within a tawdry urban world that is collapsing inside itself. For instance his shirt cardboard reflections, 'if you want to know who your friends are, get yourself a jail sentence', in other societies and circles, the test of friendship would not be so extreme, but in Bukowski's world, a jail sentence would suffice as best a test of friendship as you can get. A writer like Wordsworth would draw for us the beauty of nature, but Bukowski points out that nature may be drawn as one thing but how it goes about its business of being natural is another thing entirely. He also speaks for the thoughts and actions of humanity that is not dogmatic idealism, some people are embarrassed when they fart, but imagine if they farted and had a follow through? This is what Bukowski is about. When the mind is roughing it, not taking the usual route.
Notes of a Dirty Old Man has all the stickiness of ill mannered sex, sordid situations, crass thoughts, and broken down poetry, but it does feel good to read it, like taking hard liquor that burns the throat, once it hits the belly it loosens you up. This book is not for those seeking Dostoyevsky or Chekhov, tales of the poor, set in earnest poverty - if misfortune is a stream, some writers would write about people trying to get out of it, or simply being carried away by its current, but Bukowski writes about splashing, bomb diving, paddling, skinny dipping and fishing in that stream of misfortune. That's what you'll discover in its pages. -
Like South of No North, this book has its ups and downs, although I like Notes of a Dirty Old Man slightly better for several reasons. There are some really, really interesting and great short stories in this book and there are some really weird, messed-up ones which leave you saying or thinking WTF?
This is a collection of articles that Bukowski wrote in his column for OPEN CITY over about a 11-month period.
This book has reconfirmed for me the fact that Bukowski is best at this form of writing - short stories. His poetry can be very hit and miss at times but his short story prose is more often good than bad and sometimes exceptionally fascinating and quirky.
There is plenty of booze and debauchery in this collection. There were a few surprises here too, both good and bad. One good surprise was a short piece about Bukowski meeting Neal Cassady shortly before he died. It is well written, interesting and I think he does a nice summation of Cassady at the end of his life. He says that "Kerouac has written your other chapters". One disappointing surprise was Bukowski's opinion of Burroughs - "Burroughs is a very dull writer". He truly thinks Celine is the bee's knees. I have read some Celine and think he is a pretty good writer but terribly pessimistic and misanthropic - sounds right up Buk's lane huh?
In conclusion, this book would be exceptionally good if it didn't contain those few really disturbing stories. I know some Buk fans will disagree but hell that's how I roll. Definitely worth the price of admission though.
A big thanks to the Temple University Japan (Tokyo) Library for lending me a copy of this book. -
"...il mondo fa di noi uomini (e donne) dei pazzi, e perfino i santi sono dementi, non si salva niente. così vaffanculo. ottimo. stando ai miei calcoli ho avuto soltanto 2500 pezzi di figa ma ho visto 12.500 corse dei cavalli, e se posso darvi un consiglio, ecco qui: datevi alla pittura ad acquarelli."
Almeno una volta all'anno ho la necessità fisica e mentale di ritornare con i piedi per terra e osservare la realtà intorno a me senza -ismi vari e cazzate simili. Riscoprirla per quello che è, in modo franco, senza stupide giustificazioni e ipocrisie. Per riconoscere quanto sono farlocche le nostre azioni e le nostre preoccupazioni di tutti i giorni. Per guardarmi in modo ironico mentre, di volta in volta, indosso le varie maschere che uso per destreggiarmi senza danni nella realtà quotidiana.
E allora leggo Bukowski. -
Tanto disparate tão bem escrito.
-
About the collection itself, I did find the eclectic mix of stories a little jarring. I’m spoiled and used to sections and titles in short story collections now so we know how it’s organized, but this seems like total hodgepodge or possibly chronological by publication date. I‘m not really sure why it was compiled at all (way back in 1969) unless Essex House (who published a lot of erotica) was looking for the vastest spread of sex stories possible. Now I know that’s a vast oversimplification but most of the stories are true, or have true elements! Some are pure fantasy (like a guy with wings playing baseball) while many others happened to some extent, and almost all include some kind of graphic sex (I’m not going there to describe it).
Others were sad to me, such as a vivid recounting of how years of beatings and other abuse turns someone into a living but kind of mostly dead person. It’s an extremely personal look at his life. Alcohol, homelessness, bouncing around various places to live and taking menial jobs, abusive relationships that went both ways, these are the real life parts. Probably/hopefully exaggerated a bit but who really knows, people are crazy.
What’s interesting too is just objectively seeing what he chose to write about once he knew the editor gave precisely zero fucks and let him write whatever he wanted! Remember, everything in the book appeared in an underground newspaper.
That said, most of the collection is pretty funny. Bukowski said, at one point or another, that he put the comedy in so that people wouldn’t pity him – and the ironic thing is that it attracted quite a few odd admirers, many of which he writes about. Some of the writing went right over my head and I had no idea what he was talking about. Some got a chuckle. Something about tiny snail assholes had me cracking up, like yeah if you eat something whole you’re eating it’s asshole too
Of the many columns and blurbs here, there is one about a party and the time Bukowski met Neal Cassady. He took a crazy car ride with Neal driving and John Bryan (who published Cassady’s letter to Kerouac in City Lights (and gave Bukowski the platform in his Open City paper to write the segments contained in Notes of a Dirty Old Man).
Oyy ok let’s get this wrapping up, I’m rambling which means I had a lot of thoughts and didn’t know how to frame them. A little bit less gay bar action would have been nice for me personally but I don’t think anyone delicate or easily offended would read Bukowski past his introduction. I’m not worried about discussing the writing here. It’s irreverent in every sense of the world and the title is aptly named. I actually started listening to this book on audio because Will Patton’s voice is everything, but without actual chapter breaks it was too hard to follow.
Overall, I think Bukowski is an interesting character in American literature and I enjoy his short stories in small doses. He’s a decent tie in for those interested in the beat generation and those looking for irreverence in everything. Barfly (the movie he wrote about his life) wasn’t bad, I watched it after reading, but then I read that he didn’t like his actor’s portrayal. I guess the takeaway is that you can see a lot of the stories in the film too. Anyway, give him a shot if you are checking out American short story writers -
Original Review (08/02/2017):
Though it recycles a fair amount of "Post Office," "Ham on Rye," and "Factotum," "Notes of a Dirty Old Man" feels a little fresh for Bukowski. It at least has its own personality. You can tell he was pretty smashed while writing this shit - he'll segue from an MRA-style "women-are-conniving-rats" rant to a story about fucking a 5-foot tall, 350-pound prostitute.
It's raw stuff, with little to no care put in for structural cohesion. At one point, Bukowski states that he is aware that his narration is switching between tenses, and tells the reader that, if they care, they can "shove a nipple up their scrotum." This doesn't even make anatomical sense.
Yeah, you can see why the FBI kept a file on Charles Bukowski for this book. At one point, someone says to a Bukowski self-insert character, "It doesn't matter whether your stories are true," to which Bukowski replies "They are." This could all be bluffing, but if not, then Bukowski has raped and beaten a good few souls in this world. If he isn't bluffing, he has coasted from a childhood of abuse and hatred to an adulthood of boozing, rape, violence, and laziness, all while maintaining interiority and literary wit.
Of course, that doesn't make any of his literal and figurative woman-bashing acceptable, but it's part of the entrance fee for reading this shit.
There is a sequence in "Notes of a Dirty Old Man" where a painting instructor gives a young Bukowski brushes and paints (he didn't bring his own), and instructs him to paint a vase, just like his classmates. While they take hours, he is finished in five minutes. His color is sparse and basic, and the vase resembles shit more than slightly in its coloring. But his classmates are amazed and refuse to believe Bukowski has never painted before.
The inclusion of this story may sound pretentious, and that is probably because it is, but it is a good encapsulation of the Bukowski appeal. Even if it is all an act, all of the autobiographical shit, Bukowski still has the narrative perspective of a person who refused to be groomed by his parents, teachers, or lovers. An alcoholic, violent, reflective, melancholy, predatory, imaginative, brutal narrator. And "NOADOM" reads like a tour through his boundary-less mind.
"NOADOM" is good Bukowski, with his penchant for crushing realistic stories, his angels-and-demons-and-necrophilia stories, his putrid sex stories, and his politically nihilistic stories. It's the sort of gut-slice writing that you either devour or spit back out in disgust.
Update (12/19/2020):
I wrote this review in 2017 and reread a lot of Buk in 2020. Upon rereading "Notes of a Dirty Old Man," I am struck by how... immoral Bukowski can be. He admits to brutally raping a prostitute in this book, a story I alluded to in my original review. The story could be fictional, of course, but I've read a lot of Bukowski, and I feel like I can tell when he's BS'ing and when he isn't.
It doesn't feel like he is bluffing in the story about the prostitute.
I'm not telling you not to read this book. I’m not calling for anyone to “cancel” Bukowski. I’m just writing honestly about my feelings about this book and Buk in general.
I started reading him when I was in high school, and his feelings of alienation resonated with me. I don’t regret the affection I developed for his work. As I’ve grown older, I still feel that affection, but I am also more cognizant of the moral failings that I once excused and overlooked.
My original review did not emphasize enough the amount of pain Bukowski probably brought into the world through his actions. I felt compelled to rectify that problem by making this edit. I am leaving the original up because I think there is truth in what I said then and truth in what I say now. -
I hadn't read any Bukowski in over a year so I thought it was about time that I carried on with my challenge which is to read everything that he's ever released.
Notes Of A Dirty Old Man is a compilation of columns and short stories that have been collected from Bukowski's early days when he was writing for Open City which was a free, leftist leaning magazine which had a politicalised agenda. Its main aim was to support and influence the non-conformist countercultures which were thriving throughout the 60's underground of America.
This book is definitely more political than his others. However, there's still the same old dosage of smut, filth and complete degeneracy and perverseness throughout which will satisfy any Bukowski fan.
As with anything written by Bukowski, I wouldn't recommend it to you if you're easily offended or overtly PC. This certainly won't be an enjoyable read for you if you're either of the aforementioned.
Various authors are name dropped throughout the novel including: Dostoyevsky, Celine, Camus, Cassady, Kerouac, Burroughs, and Ginsberg. He pays respect and champions some of them, and completely berates and slanders others, as I'm sure you'd expect.
A few of the stories from this book were also featured in Barfly. If you haven't seen the film and you love anything Bukowski related then check it out.
This isn't a review, it's just a long winded reminder to myself about what I've read as I have a habit of forgetting certain specifics of a book after reading it. If this serves as a catalyst towards anyone else reading it then that's cool, but I honestly couldn't really care either way.
It's Bukowski, he's my favourite writer so I'm obviously gonna rate it 5/5. -
an intellectual is a man who says a simple thing in a difficult way; an artist is a man who says a difficult thing in a simple way
I've always loved that quote. Or since I first read it anyway. But I didn't know that it came from this book.
I really don't know if I liked this book. I just didn't get into it. And not even because it was nasty or creepy (because let's face it, despite panic attacks and crap, I made it through Brett Easton Ellis' American Psycho and if I can get through that, I think I can get through any book).
I don't know what difficult thing Bukowski was trying to say but I can't argue that it was told in a very simple way.
This is the first of his books that I've read and I catch myself thinking that I really don't hope the rest of his book are the same. Because when I finally, after three days, managed to turn the last page of this 200 page book, I just didn't care.
Ive heard great things about his way of writing and what he can do with words. So I hope this is just a one-off. -
An exotically intellectual ilk of read.
Emphasised emotions, less-philosophical-more-empirical nature of almost everything 'viciously' came under the nib of Bukowski's pen in this semi-autobiographical journal, with unusual boldness and humorous conduit.
"Well, class is something you see, feel, rather than define, you can see it in men too, animals. You see it in some trapeze artists as they walk onto the arena. Something in the walk, something in the manner. They have something inside AND outside, it's mostly inside and it makes the outside work. You do that when you dance; the inside makes the outside work." -
Bukowski is the writer other writers try to emulate.
Bukowski is often accused of stripping the good away from life but if you read closer you'll realize how much respect he has for life and how much joy it brings him. I wouldn't describe his work as realism only as a type of "subjective realism" where the truth of the matter is only true for him. As he himself says, "The public takes from a writer what it needs and let's the remainder go, but what they take is usually what they need least and what they let go is what they need the most." -
Je trouve émouvant de partager le quotidien de Bukowski, que ce soit ses lectures de poèmes ou la litanie de ses journées. Il s'en dégage toujours quelque chose de très personnel.
-
Parole in libertà prendendo di mira tutti gli stereotipi possibili, dall'altra parte della barricata insomma. Stile asciutto, alcuni racconti specie l'ultimo molto riusciti. Ma, quando si parla di donne, la visione è più che convenzionale, gli sterotipi di genere sono tutti lì..qualcuno dirà che fanno parte del quadro che descrive. Secondo me, Defoe era più avanti!
-
This book isn't his best stuff. His prime writing can be found elsewhere. Yet Notes of a Dirty Old Man is gem for any long time Bukowski reader because he reveals aspects of himself that are missing from his big titles. This collection of writing has a freer vibe and is more experimental. Political, post-modern, queer, themes almost untouched in his massive body of work.
I give this book five stars for its insightful qualities into a writer I thought could no longer surprise me. -
I cannot believe that the author of this book and "ham on rye" are the same person.
-
χρόνος ανάγνωσης κριτικής: 32 δευτερόλεπτα
Και αυτός ήταν ο έκτος μου Μπουκόφσκι.
Είπα πριν διαβάσω το προτελευταίο του μυθιστόρημα
να διαβάσω και μία συλλογή διηγημάτων.
Σε αντίθεση με τα μυθιστορήματα δεν προτιμώ τις συλλογές διηγημάτων του
διότι δεν είναι ακριβώς διηγήματα αλλά ουσιαστικά μικρά επεισόδια
από τη ζωή όπως την έζησε ο Μπουκόφσκι.
Παρόλο που διαβάζεται γρήγορα δεν σε τραβάει σαν μαγνήτης
να συνεχίσεις μετά από διάλειμμα ανάγνωσης, διότι το μικρό μέγεθος
των σημειώσεων /ιστοριών δεν σε βοηθά να δεθείς με κάποιο χαρακτήρα,
απλά απολαμβάνεις τον τρόπο που γράφει ο Μπουκόφσκι.
Παρόλο που τρία αγαπημένα πράγματα για τον Μπουκόφσκι:
γυναίκες, ποτό, και ιππόδρομος εμένα με αφήνουν κάπως αδιάφορο,
συμφωνούμε σε πολλά πράγματα όπως στο πώς βλέπουμε την ζωή (βλέπε δουλειά)
και τον κόσμο της ποίησης.
Παρόλα αυτά πέρασα ωραία για άλλη μια φορά στον κόσμο του θείου Τσαρλς.
Για να δούμε αν φέτος θα κρατηθώ να διαβάσω μόνο 2 Μπουκόφσκιδες. -
I had this book on my TBR shelf for around 5 years... I don't recall where I picked up the name from, and why I had it... but it's possible that the time interested me... I enjoy the tales of dirty old men in general… so here I am… let’s read this “masterpiece”.
The author Bukowski used to write the column "Notes of a Dirty Old Man" for the newspaper Open City (which I never heard of obviously)... One day, someone decided to tell him "hey why not compile them and publish them as a book"... I wish I can find that person so that I can ask him/her "WHAT WERE YOU THINKING!”.
This was by far the stupidest book I've ever read... It was filthy, full of drunk pages and utter rubbish... Just like what you see in these poor American movies with actors that should go into retirement instead of making a fool of themselves. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind these things in some books... but I did not get the fun of it here. I tossed the book half way.
I am really surprised it got high rating, with some saying that it's not for the "faint heart". I think you need to be drunk to read this shit.
#SorryNotSorry -
I really don't get what makes Bukowski so profound. Notes of a Dirty Old Man is the ramblings of a drunk and dirty gambler, always looking for his next drink or screw. Bukowski's writing is called Dirty Realism. That pretty much sums this particular book up. This book is a collection of little snippets of stories, based on Bukowski's life. He has no goals or aspirations. He barely works. The only thing he seems to have going for him is a large penis, but in my opinion, he's so dirty, smelly, and disgusting that I wouldn't touch it with my enemy's vagina, just so I could ask her how he was.
It turns out he produced a shit-load (an appropriate term) of work. Well, I am not sure I want to read much more of it. I feel like I could give any local homeless drunk in North Hollywood a typewriter and some paper and he would come up with similar stories. So maybe Bukowski is profound because he was the first to write in this kind of voice. Maybe, he is seen as an anti-hero or an outsider. That's just not enough for me.
