1. caite.info (Site is gone. -ed.) --> where you can At Times and. - Factotum (!) . I have the OJ Simpson book here in a PDF and I can't get through 3 pages of the thing. Oh wait, that's. "It began as a mistake." By middle age, Henry Chinaski has lost more than twelve years of his life to the U.S. Postal Service. In a world where his three tru. BY CHARLES BUKOWSKI. Flower, Fist and Bestial Wail (). Poems and Drawings (). Longshot Pomes for Broke Players (). Run with the Hunted.
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FACTOTUM. Charles Bukowski. For John & Barbara Martin. The novelist does not long to see the lion eat grass. He realizes that one and the same God created . G R E AT W R I T E R SCHARLES BUKOWSKI G R E AT W R I T E R S CHARLES BUKOWSKI JACK KEROUAC BARBARA KINGSOLVER SYLV. Author: Bukowski Charles The Foundling's Tale, Part Three: Factotum Charles Bukowski FACTOTUM For John & Barbara Martin The novelist does not long.
Even a cursory review of the poems and stories that Bukowski wrote about his time with Jane contain as many instances of humor, hard-won grace, and underdog solidarity as they do squalor and indignity. In , he began a ten-year correspondence and close relationship with William Carlos Williams, who dubbed Norse the best poet of his generation. Griffith, editor of Hearse magazine. Pages to import images to Wikidata All stub articles. Evidently that life of simple anonymity was not enough to keep him in the Big Easy, though, because Bukowski made plans a few months later to head back to California by joining a railroad crew bound for Sacramento. Very lately, I can tell a good woman when I see one, a good fire, a good whiskey, a good car, a good painting But all that would come later.
Martin wrote again after the holidays and suggested he bring by some bottles of liquor that had been given to him by friends who were unaware he did not drink. Martin asked if Bukowski had any unpublished material lying around that he might have a look at and Bukowski directed him to a closet practically overflowing with pages. He picked up a few pages at random and was so impressed by what he read that he offered then and there to publish a few broadsides.
He explained his plan to establish a small press dedicated exclusively to contemporary poetry and his hope that Bukowski might become his star author.
Needless to say, Bukowski liked what he heard, saw a potentially lucrative partner in Martin, and agreed to let him take whatever he wanted. Up to that point he had made almost no money from his writing—most of his publishers, including Jon Webb, paid him in contributor copies, if at all, so he had virtually nothing to lose.
Three more followed, one per month, for the next three months: A fifth, The Flower Lover, followed in October. For the first time in his life, Bukowski began to think he might actually be able to quit the workaday world and make it on his writing alone. In the meantime, Martin completed his leap of faith by selling his entire collection of modern first editions to the University of California, Santa Barbara for fifty thousand dollars about thirty of which was left after taxes and fees and investing the whole kit and caboodle into Black Sparrow.
The pair could hardly have been more different from one another. Martin abstained from tobacco, gambling, drugs, and alcohol, and was a church-going man, devoted to his family.
He dressed well, steered clear of the counterculture, and never engaged in the heated arguments Bukowski so loved to start. But after years of dealing with fellow madmen and emotionally unstable women, Bukowski was glad to find someone he could trust implicitly, someone who carried no baggage and reduced their personal interaction to its barest essential—Martin paid him to write. Limited edition broadsides and poems in small-circulation magazines were not going to make Bukowski famous, however.
Until Black Sparrow was fully operational, he needed to find another outlet, something that would reach more eyes and minds and create a real following to buy the books John Martin was promising to print. He happened upon the perfect answer when John Bryan asked him to write a column for his new underground newspaper. At the time, Bukowski viewed every opportunity to publish as a happy accident—good for sustaining morale, but not likely to lead to any major success, financial or otherwise.
The style was colloquial, brash, and pure Bukowski. He did not bother to hide behind a pseudonym, and though he embellished quite a bit, most of his early articles were based on his own experiences: In each of these stories, he managed to slip in just enough talk of sex or some other transgressive behavior to keep his readers titillated and coming back for more.
As his store of autobiographical anecdotes began to dwindle, the weekly demand for more of the same kept him constantly in search of new material. He began to borrow from the lives of his friends and associates, often depicting them in an unflattering and inaccurate manner for greater effect.
Needless to say, none of them appreciated the treatment and more than a few egos were badly bruised in the process. The public ate it up, however, and Bukowski acquired quite a local following. Black Sparrow published two more Bukowski broadsides in The second broadside, The Curtains Are Waving, featured just the titular poem.
Approximately a hundred of each was printed and the vast majority of those have disappeared into the remainder bin of history. Not quite as large, nor as extravagantly produced as his two Loujon Press collections, it nonetheless became another instant collectible, thanks to some unintentional special features. The first regards its harrowing journey to publication. The pair of them liked to stay up late popping speed, drinking beers, and shooting the breeze.
Many nights Thomas recorded their conversations onto a reel-to-reel machine. It just so happens that night it was Bukowski reading. The original manuscripts for those poems got misplaced, nobody seems to know what happened to them, and they were forgotten. Bukowski heard the tapes sometime later, identified the poems and the voice as his own, and when Martin came to him with the idea of putting out something larger than a broadside, Bukowski suggested he use the poems preserved on tape.
The curse attending these poems did not end with the lost manuscripts. Finally, fifty copies of the recordings themselves were sold to collectors at ten bucks a pop. Forrest was a fellow poet, and the second author that Black Sparrow published. In the excerpt, Bukowski is complaining melodramatically about work, depression, and the weather. Interestingly, the parts of the letter not excerpted contain much more valuable biographical information.
In these, he admits to having a falling out with the Webbs over his account of a recent visit to their new home in Tucson where they had moved for health reasons , written for his Open City column, which he assesses rather offhandedly: Then he goes on to mention that he had recently applied for a grant from the Guggenheim Foundation.
Clearly Bukowski was hedging his bets, emotionally and professionally. Without belaboring the point, it seems likely that not getting the Guggenheim played a large role in him abandoning the novel. Deep down, the opinion of the establishment still mattered to him. The Guggenheim rejection aside, Bukowski had plenty of projects to keep him busy. For a paycheck that fat, Bukowski was willing to slum around with a less than reputable publisher. But there is a fine line between edgy literature and outright pornography and Bukowski did not always walk it successfully.
The case was eventually dropped but Open City collapsed amid the resulting furor. Once again, Bukowski could not resist the urge to burn a bridge once he had crossed it. Fortunately, for Bukowski, his relationship with John Martin remained as rock solid as ever.
Working with someone as efficient and business-like as Martin gave Bukowski a taste of how professional publishers could operate, and after a decade of dealing with often flaky little magazines and newspapers he began to crave more control and consistency, not to mention a chance to disseminate his own take on what constituted worthwhile literature.
He never stopped nursing his dream to quit the post office it is easy to forget he was still working full-time during this period but to do that he would need another steady source of income. With the exception of his inclusion in the Penguin Modern Poets series, a coup that would not have been possible without the influence of Harold Norse, the mainstream publishers were still too conservative to go anywhere near him.
So in early , Bukowski channeled his disgust with both ends of the publishing spectrum into his own magazine. His partner in this enterprise was Neeli Cherkovski, a young poet and son of friend Sam Cherry nee Cherkovski.
As when he helped Barbara Frye edit Harlequin, Bukowski had difficulty keeping in check his resentment over slights real and imagined; he and Neeli were often merciless in their rejection letters, especially when the authors were people they did not like. They also clearly had an axe to grind with poets then in vogue and threw down the gauntlet with the following words printed boldly on the cover of issue number one: The post office authorities, in turn, informed the FBI.
An investigator came around to interrogate the Crottys his landlords and a few neighbors about his political leanings and lifestyle. Then, one day Bukowski was called into the personnel office and confronted with several copies of the newspaper. For many Americans, signaled much more than the last year of the decade. It was the death of a dream, the end of an era.
The assassinations of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy in presaged a string of violent and disturbing acts the following year that collectively clouded the national horizon and rang a death knell on the flower power generation: Charles Manson and the Tate-Bianca murders, the ugly incident at Altamount, nationwide race riots, and nearly 10, Americans killed in Vietnam. In that context, it is telling that was a banner year for Bukowski. His brand of grim realism, leavened here and there with gallows humor and picaresque flourishes, clearly spoke to disillusioned America, as evidenced by the extraordinary amount of Bukowski material printed and read that year.
Most of the poems inside were culled from the previous chapbooks and underground magazines and the specter of Jane haunts a good number of them.
Roughly concurrent with the release of The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses over the Hills were two other events that unequivocally mark as a major turning point for Bukowski. For Martin, who still had his own family to support and a business to run, it represented a substantial sum and a financial risk.
Scrounging for a backup plan, Bukowski went to Martin and promised plenty of new material in return for the monthly stipend, failing to mention that he had no other option.
Martin agreed and the rest is history Sounes, The real story hints at another side to Bukowski that often gets left out of standard characterizations of him as a freewheeling gambler and spendthrift.
The truth, according to those that knew him best, was that Bukowski was a frugal man who paid his bills on time, seldom lent money to friends, and only gambled with money he did not strictly need. At the time he left the post office, he had thousands in a savings account some of it still socked away from his inheritance , and about the same in a pension fund.
However much he hated his father, some of the old man had slipped into him. This helps explain why he stuck it out for so long at the Terminal Annex, despite the tediousness of the job and the terrible wear on his body. He simply could not bear to go back to the days when he survived on candy bars and beer.
He also had Marina to think about, and the monthly child support payments. Understanding these pressures, and their effect on Bukowski, helps crystallize just how scary and exhilarating it must have been to sever that lifeline and set out to survive on his writing ability alone.
There is some discrepancy over when, exactly, Bukowski was liberated. Sounes, usually more exact, puts the date sometime in December Sounes, Whenever it actually happened, the result was the same. As Bukowski put it in a letter written January 11, I am a member of the unemployed now with nothing but a typer and a couple of paint brushes to hold off the world.
So keep your fingers crossed for me and hope the gods are on my side. Screams, A good indication of his income concerns, and the second pivotal event in , was that Bukowski finally agreed to give a public reading.
Everyone agrees that Bukowski read brilliantly—so brilliantly that he was invited back for an encore performance the following night that was equally well attended and received—but recollections of the date of the reading also differ somewhat.
Sounes, drawing on numerous interviews as well as a February review of the reading by John Thomas, pegs the date more precisely as December 19, , just before Buk escaped the Terminal Annex. I try to photograph rather than preach. And not just chronologically. Was he a lazy bum who lay about all day drinking beer in his underwear? Yes, but was he also a disciplined writer with a hefty dose of German fortitude and an ear for classical music? Yes indeed.
Did he gamble and drink away money better spent on more practical things? You bet. Was he also a thrifty man who made a dollar last longer than most. Yep, that too. Did he covet the respect and admiration of his peers?
Yes, albeit secretly and selectively. Did he also despise literary criticism and any form of academic writing? With a passion. Was he an ugly ogre with a cruel heart and a mile-wide streak of vindictiveness? Did he adore his daughter with a tenderness that would shame Mr. No question. Take the following excerpt of a letter included with his child support payment in September I think about you all the time and love you more than the sky or the mountains or the ocean or anybody or anything.
He wrote his first novel, Post Office, in about three weeks, working on it ten hours a day and revising as he went along. Twelve straight years of toil and frustration poured out of him in simple, clipped sentences.
It was all fairly pedestrian stuff, but the unique voice with which he delivered it inspired interest, camaraderie, and most of all laughs.
A barrel full of laughs. Henry Chinaski was a regular guy, the kind we all knew. He was just trying to get by, working one of the million meaningless jobs that make the world go round. He was a wise-ass and a screw-up, always horny or hung over or both—in short, the kind of man who refused to be romanticized.
He was not fighting for some greater cause, or the love of a good woman, or even his own soul. He just wanted what we all want—a life without too much hardship, a few creature comforts, a warm bed, and somebody to share it with. When he completed Post Office, Bukowski turned again to poetry for a while and continued producing at an amazing rate. Signs that he was achieving at least some degree of literary importance began to manifest themselves.
In May he was invited to read at the University of New Mexico and Bellevue Community College, in Seattle, the latter necessitating his first ever plane ride. Both events were big hits despite the advanced state of inebriation required to get Bukowski up on stage. Bukowski turned fifty in August of that year and was keenly aware of the great unknown he was entering, at an age when most men were looking forward to retirement. Despite all the outward indications of promise, he was still plagued by self-doubt.
Carl Weissner was busy translating Notes of a Dirty Old Man, John Martin was readying Post Office for publication, but Bukowski never stopped worrying about his income, or lack thereof.
To fill the gaps in his budget, he wrote stories for porn mags like Fling, lacing them with sex scenes that were outlandish even by his standards. A second attempt at securing grant money, this time from the National Endowment for the Arts, resulted again in failure. In times like these, Bukowski needed companionship to keep his mind from eating itself. Not the kind of unsatisfying company afforded by visiting sycophants, or even the comfort of a good friend.
No, he needed a woman. Someone he could spar with, sexually and emotionally. Someone to recharge his aging batteries and get his blood running again. For better or worse, that is exactly what he found. She was also the most unbalanced.
Not only was she another casualty of a failed marriage, like Jane Cooney Baker and FrancEyE before her, she had also suffered a nervous breakdown and spent time in a mental institution receiving electro-shock therapy. After moving to Burbank with her two children, King dabbled in several bohemian pursuits, from acting, to writing poetry, to sculpting.
King first caught sight of Bukowski at a poetry reading at The Bridge, sometime in late She had met Peter Edler there and, in discussing the local scene, Edler had mentioned Bukowski. His name spoken, the devil duly put in an appearance later that night, but he did not stay long enough to meet her the only poetry readings Bukowski could stomach were his own, and even those often brought on bouts of actual vomiting.
What she lacked in eloquence she apparently made up in flare. Bukowski was in the middle of another sexual dry spell, and immediately set about trying to seduce her. For her part, King looked at Bukowski more as a personal challenge than a possible lover, at least in the beginning; she had notions of taming his chauvinism. Nevertheless, a switch was thrown that night and the current ran through both of them.
Linda toyed with Hank for a while, enjoying the power his attraction gave her. With the poem was a letter and in the letter was an offer to sculpt his bust. King knew full well neither his ego nor his libido would permit him to refuse. Dozens of letters were sent back and forth. Old Buk knew nothing about it. King would fix that before long. King helped him lose some weight and clean out his system and a few weeks later the relationship was finally consummated.
Bukowski quickly became infatuated with the younger woman, a dangerous state for someone so prone to jealous rages. King was vivacious and gregarious at parties; she liked to dance and flirt playfully with other writers and artists. Bukowski would watch her all night, simmering with rage.
Sometimes he contained the inevitable explosion until later, when they were alone. Sometimes he did not. The volatility of their relationship and the frequency of their public meltdowns contributed to the growing Bukowski legend. People showed up at parties where they knew he would be just to see what might happen. Eventually, bronze replicas of the bust were made and sold to collectors, but the run was abbreviated and extant copies are quite scarce indeed.
Post Office was published in midst of all this, on February 8, It is not quite clear why it took a year from the time Bukowski finished it to when it was released to the public.
Perhaps, after the deluge in , Martin wanted to avoid flooding the market with even more Bukowski material, but at least part of the delay was editorial. I think though that most of the terms are obvious, even to an outsider Think it over a while.
Weissner had already published his edition of Notes of a Dirty Old Man and though it only managed to sell about twelve hundred copies, despite the invention of a Henry Miller plug for the book jacket, Weissner was eager to put out something else Sounes, and Living on Luck, Many assert that Martin was either completely hands off or that Bukowski refused every change ever suggested.
Regardless of the editorial route Post Office took on its way to publication, the reading public greeted it eagerly on arrival. The first run of two thousand sold out almost immediately, and it has gone on to sell upwards of fifty thousand copies. The success of Post Office caught the attention of another enterprising small publisher, Lawrence Ferlinghetti. While that partnership was forming, another was permanently terminated.
Ailing and estranged from his favorite writer ever since Bukowski wrote that slanderous article about him for Open City, Jon Webb died in June , signaling the end of one of the most distinctive small presses in American publishing. She called him on faults few had thrown in his face before, characterizing his constant angst as a distorted form of narcissism and his drinking a cowardly screen against reality.
When she went back to Utah to visit family, as she did every summer, Bukowski nearly went mad without her, firing off a flurry of panicked phone calls and lovestruck letters. More fights erupted in public and private when King returned. On at least three occasions, the police were summoned to help calm things down.
For a brief time afterward, it looked like King might have reached her limit. She tried to break away, and succeeded for a time, but soon they were together again. It would be several more years and multiple breakups and reunions before they severed their relationship for good. She was also quite successful and well connected in the music industry. When they got together, she was president of Island Records, the label responsible for, among other things, introducing Bob Marley and other reggae artists to the States.
As such, Williams was in a position to pamper Bukowski. She treated him to a weeklong vacation to Catalina, an island off the Southern California coast, and several other getaways up the coast.
She also let him stay at her fancy pad in the Hollywood Hills, where she hosted many exclusive parties, and introduced him to the hip musicians and artists who attended. Bukowski had little use for the vast majority of these people, whom he considered vapid and untalented, and he spent most of his time coldly eyeing the crowd, but a few slipped past his defenses and became friends—colorful characters like R. The two of them apparently hit it off so well that Hackford was soon accompanying Bukowski on his daily trips to the racetracks and drinking with him well into the night.
Then working in public television, Hackford began to formulate plans for making a documentary on his new friend. Bukowski liked the idea, and gave Hackford the green light. Between his tempestuous reunions with King and cushy rendezvous with Liza Williams, Bukowski also managed to find time to court through the post a twenty-seven year-old airline stewardess and fan of his writing named Patricia Connell. Bukowski wrote her a spate of at least eleven letters in three months August—October, , in which he downplayed his love triangle with King and Williams while slyly suggesting they make it a quadrilateral in another letter to Weissner, Bukowksi hints at a fourth woman, waiting in the wings and even younger still.
For her part, King continued to play along with consummate skill, breaking into his place one night while he was with Williams and stealing back her bust. In the end, Liza never really had a chance—again and again in his letters, Bukowski admits that he never really loved her the way he loved Linda. In addition to continued work on his second novel, Bukowski edited and published An Anthology of L. Poets with Neeli Cherkovski and Paul Vangelisti, collaborated with Linda King on the aforementioned chapbook, wrote more stories for the L.
Free Press which had picked up his column after the demise of Open City , and churned out enough new poems for John Martin to release another collection, called Mockingbird Wish Me Luck.
A January letter to Carl Weissner also mentions several translations in the works. Split eleven years later into two volumes called Tales of Ordinary Madness and The Most Beautiful Woman in Town, Erections ran to nearly five hundred pages and contained many of the best short stories Bukowski ever wrote.
Taylor Hackford accompanied Bukowski north and shot footage of the event for his documentary. His stock was not wasted.
He was stone drunk, as usual, and stricken with terrible stage fright, but none of that showed when got on the mic and riled the crowd with his commanding and combative presence.
Bukowski met and exceeded their expectations. He had reconciled with Linda King for the weekend, but old jealousies flared almost immediately and, as Sounes relates in his lively prologue, their reunion devolved into a violent spat that scattered the guests, shattered windows and door panels, and ultimately summoned the police. As much as he hated the pressure and the circus atmosphere surrounding his readings, Bukowski was forced to concede their earning potential.
But demand for his readings was high and he almost always got what he asked. He also began to attend some of her school functions, and generally play a larger role in her life. Despite its irregularity, the father-daughter bond between them remained extraordinarily strong. The letter cited at the beginning of this chapter makes it clear that, in some ways beyond standard advice on the crossing the street , Marina played the parental role in their relationship by providing Bukowski with his one unconditional and unadulterated source of comfort and happiness.
In return, Marina seemed to ask very little of him; she must have intuitively understood he was a different kind of father and simply enjoyed spending time in his company. On the contrary, she remembers always feeling loved and well cared for by her father, who had a talent for communicating on a level she could understand. I brush them away And she sits above me giggling. Bukowski found additional pleasure in his by-now automatic routines of writing a bit each day and going to the racetracks.
Work on Factotum continued albeit in fits and starts , the poems seldom stopped writing themselves for more than a few days at a time, and Carl Wiessner was busy translating the stories from Erections Inevitably, the roof caved on this semi-blissful home life. The fights in public and the bouts of drunken madness began all over again.
On at least one occasion, Bukowski went berserk and started tearing up the house. The cops came and took him away, but according to Sounes they turned out to be big fans of his work and let him off with nary a slap on the wrist. In the summer of , King invited Bukowski to join her on the annual return to Utah.
Extended hijinks ensued when Bukowski, an inveterate city dweller, got lost in the backcountry. Back in LA, the star-crossed lovers picked up right where they left off. Linda caught Bukowski visiting one of his girlfriends one day and nearly ran him over with her car. In addition to priceless footage from the Poets Theater reading, the film featured intimate and gritty scenes from his daily life, hiding none of his faults and allowing him ample opportunity to extemporize about his life.
Once again, Bukowski was faced with a double-edged situation in which ego-gratification came shaken and stirred with ample snorts of embarrassment and exposure. Part of it was simple jealousy. However, Bukowski certainly did not endear himself with his continued boorishness and insensitive behavior.
One of his more despicable habits was hitting on women in print and in actuality whose lovers or husbands had recently passed away. Who can say what actually happened, but the imagining of it can at least be partially explained by his extreme hatred for this father.
But even that betrayal pales in comparison to the Shakespearean backstabbing of his former friend William Wantling. In the spring of , Wantling asked Bukowski to give a reading at the college in Illinois where he was teaching at the time. They had continued to correspond, and their work appeared in many of the same publications, but they had yet to meet face to face. Like numerous other warm and respectful long-distance relationships that turned sour in person, it would have been much better for both of them if they had kept their distance.
Until that night, Wantling held Bukowski in the highest regard and was crushed when his idol came toppling down from his pedestal. No one can say for sure whether Wantling read the pieces, but shortly after their appearance he drank himself to death.
He was living with you. Subsequent collections of short stories Weissner wisely selected the best from Erections His son must have enjoyed the irony in his reversal of that trend over fifty years later. A retrospective of his poetic output to date, the book was divided into four sections comprised of poems selected from his two Loujon Press books, his first Black Sparrow collection At Terror Street and Agony Way and a final section showcasing new poems written from — In the twenty years left to him, he would continue to produce at a rate unsurpassed by any other American poet.
As Russell Harrison astutely points out in Against the American Dream, Bukowski was more prolific than every other major poet now being studied in the universities. If nothing else, it is worth studying how an inveterate misanthrope did more to democratize poetry than any other American writer, living or dead, without having any kind of design or agenda. Dockworkers, bartenders, housewives, cabdrivers, and hookers all read his books, and often it was the only thing they read.
No, Bukowski hunkered in the trenches, night after night, year after year, decade after decade, pounding the keys and putting in the work, because he could not live any other way and his readers empathized with that. Sure, a lot of what he wrote was not worth the typewriter ribbon used to create it.
But editing was for editors and analysis for the critics. Bukowski was a writer; nothing more and nothing less—one whose readers appreciated his humanity, his willingness to bear his flaws and his weakness, and still swing for the fences. Perhaps he himself put in best in a letter to Weissner written just one month after the publication of Burning in Water Drowning in Flame.
While most poets would have paused and basked in the glory of a watershed moment, Bukowski went right back to work, grinding out the words. I know this because many of them have told me so.
And I think the main reason they did was because of his beat-up, fearless, bestial face, the kind of face that looks good to a lot of women, like it did to the fairy tale Belle, and makes them feel, when juxtaposed to that archetypal, gritty gruffness, smooth, intuitive, and eternally beautiful.
Charles Bukowski: Work on Factotum slowed down a bit during the fall while he maintained a fairly rigorous and profitable schedule of readings around the country, pumped out pieces for the LA Free Press, and continued sparring with the poem. He had presciently kept his bungalow on Carlton Way during his cohabitation with Linda, and most of his neighbors there were fellow lushes and carousers, so loneliness was not a problem.
Brad managed both the apartment complex and a nearby sex parlor, while Tina danced at one of the clubs downtown. The three of them went to a lot of parties together and burnt the midnight oil on Carlton Way.
The first set of photos, dated from , shows Bukowski clowning around in soiled boxers, cigar in hand, hair unwashed, looking like the last man on earth a woman would desire. Three years later, Powell took a second set with a recently purchased Polaroid camera. As Jim Christy tells it, when the Polaroids developed, Tina Darby felt Bukowski looked too sad in them, presumably over the breakup with King, and proceeded to cheer him up by slowly shedding her clothes and letting Powell take pictures of them in lewd poses.
The resultant shots capture the myth of the Dirty Old Man even better than anything he has written—a bearded, crater-faced ogre grinning and leering impishly at the lithe and willing nude girl in his lap.
Linda King chose that moment to arrive unannounced. And all hell broke loose when she saw the Polaroids. Snatching them from the hands of whoever held them at the time, King managed to rip up a few before Bukowski lunged at her and landed atop his coffee table, smashing it to pieces.
Darby ran to her place and retrieved a. At least partial corroboration of the whole sordid affair can be found in the pictures themselves, as reproduced in The Buk Book, for the most suggestive of them bear evidence of tearing and repair with scotch tape.
In it, Bukowski is standing in the kitchen of his place on Carlton Way, longish hair brushed back over his brow, beard graying prematurely around the edges, pale belly pushing out between his belt and the hem of a too-small tshirt, his arm around the waist of a woman who would be not unfairly be described as a homely tart.
The woman in the picture is named Georgia Peckham-Krellner and despite all appearances, she is not the other woman in the affair that finally cleaved the tragic bond between Bukowski and Linda King. That honor belongs to her friend, Pamela Miller, a. The pair was out celebrating at a bar and round about last call Miller rang up Bukowski and asked if the two of them could come over and meet him.
As Sounes explains, Bukowski kept his number listed for just such an occasion; he even wrote a poem about it Sounes, A strawberry blond with big breasts, pretty eyes, and a B-movie-star face, Miller had everything that Peckham-Krellner did not.
She even preferred to go by the pet name of Cupcakes. Apparently, the one thing she lacked and Peckham-Krellner had in spades was an agreeable personality. Again, as Sounes tells it, Bukowski said as much that first evening, suggesting he could make an ideal woman by merging the two of them together.
And if we cannot, well then, we are not worth his concern anyway. For those wishing to view the photo in question, an Internet search should result in success. Alternately a hard copy can be found in the second signature of photos in the Sounes book.
Bukowski had never let a character flaw get in the way of his libido before, and he was not about to start with Cupcakes. Peckham-Krellner may have been the nicer of the two, but Cupcakes had a figure straight out of his adolescent fantasies.
And everything else about her fit the profile as well; knocked up at fifteen, now a single mom, she was half his age, loved to party, and thrived on the attention her looks garnered her. The year before she had even been crowned Miss Pussycat Theaters by the chain of x-rated movie houses she worked for. But, like Linda King, she was prone to fickle moods and flirting, and she drove Bukowski crazy by cutting contact with him for days at a time time. She also played very hard to get.
Bukowski books - full text online. Thread starter Johannes Start date Jun 22, Johannes Founding member. Over posts. Over the years I stumbled over a couple of places on the net, where you can read large bodies of Bukowski-work up to whole novels online.
Mainly I found them by accident - most of the time through googling certain lines I remembered, trying to get the name of a poem or short-story. Most of them seem to be located in places you wouldn't expect, like Russia or Argentinia. And some of them seem to disappear quietly after a certain time and never show up again. Or I'm just unable to find them once more. I don't know how this works concerning copyright-issues and stuff and don't want to cause any problems.
Also I don't know how many of you forum-members are or are not already aware of this. But I just found another one yesterday and so I'm going to link it. Up to my knowledge, there are recently two places like this on the net. Last edited by a moderator: Oct 1, Olaf Over posts. Excellent find! I certianly couldn't sit and read from that site for too long, the glare from the white screen would drive me blind with retina burn, but I suppose I person could print them off But, great find nonetheless!
Thank you! It's difficult to sit at the computer and read entire online books so I've downloaded a couple of them from Emule and printed them. Same with the poems. ESO9 Over posts. Great, but I don't know. Isn't there a copyright laws? I mean, come on Bukfan "The law is wrong; I am right" Over posts.
Great finds! Of course, most of us have the books already, but for those who don't, it's a goldmine! Dec 2, Founding member. Charles Bukowski. Bukowski film Bukowski upcoming film Charles Bukowski: Retrieved from " https: Hidden categories: Pages to import images to Wikidata All stub articles. Namespaces Article Talk. Views Read Edit View history. This page was last edited on 18 August , at