A drunk, a compulsive gambler, and a lecher. A prophet, a poet, and a wordsmith. The former sounds like the beginning of a "walk into a bar" joke, while the latter resembles some kind of a cultured saint. Heralded as one of the great poets around the bend of the twentieth century, Charles Bukowski was deemed both of these men. Somewhere in his middle-aged life (though there is solid evidence it wasn't any sort of sudden epiphany), Bukowski decided he was done with the workingman's life and turned to writing. That's not exactly how it happened, but, for all practical purposes, it was.
In the true spirit of Bukowski, he wouldn't want me analyzing his life anyhow. I won't pretend to know him from reading his books, but there are a few things I can tell you about him. Most certainly, his writing can tell you about him. In fact, I'd say that Love is a Dog from Hell is a pretty good starting point as to what Charles Bukowski is all about. Cut out the B.S. and let Bukowski bring you down or up to his level of existence. I guess, like the eternal struggle between good and evil, Heaven and Hell, it's up to you to decide which direction you're headed with this read. Is there, contained within these pages, a good answer to the question "Is love really a dog from Hell?" I guess it depends on where you stand yourself. Bukowski isn't really going to tell you one way or the other in any of the poems contained in this book.
Bukowski liked to imagine himself a fighter, going into the ring with his audience, and that's often how he approached his own relationships, it seems. I fear, at this point, Bukowski might be rolling in his grave based on my crossing the line. The truth is, I really don't know him at all. I can, however, tell you what I get from his poetry and novels.
The subject matter ranges anywhere from the pitfalls of women to classical music, from horse tracks to booze fests, from utter contempt to pure love... sometimes all in a single line. He's certainly not for everybody, but there's a reason he is one of the most imitated poets of the modern era. He'll take you from the toilet seat to the proverbial mountaintop. It's like digging for buried treasure in a peat bog or musty swamp: sometimes you just want to quit, go home, and take a shower, but you know, if you just stick it out through all the dirt and grime, something really good'll come of it.
I don't know that there's too much waiting around for the buried treasure in the case of Bukowski, but if you look between the coarse language, the lover's quarrels, the binge drinking, the objectification of women, and all the other crap that somehow makes Bukowski who he is as a dislikable reject of a human being, you begin to realize that those are also the things that make him one of the most irresistible and inspirational as a person and writer. Sometimes diving down into the muck is where you get the greatest clarity, and Bukowski's muse seems to have been one dirty needle shy of a dying junky, one last trifecta bet away from a flat broke gambler, and one messed up relationship away from suicide. The awe-inspiring part is this: if I were a betting man, I'd say that's the way he liked it. I think he also preferred cats.
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