Most Helpful Customer Reviews
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2 of 2 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
A very pleasant read, 22 Dec 1998
By A Customer
Here, the old dragon has lost alot of his fire, but he still writes very pleasingly. I'm 45, and I can relate to the diminished feeling of these stories. I always read Bukowski for the black humor, and there's some funny stuff here. There's one bit about a guy at the racetrack who Bukowski calls "The Screamer", that's a real howler. And the R. Crumb illustration accompanying this anecdote complements it perfectly. All the illustrations are good. This a good, worthwhile book for Bukowsi fans.
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2 of 2 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
bukowski gave up, 29 Oct 1998
By A Customer
This book is ,no doubt, an important piece of the whole picture bukowski. But the old rebell, the barfly cannot be found in bukowskis last work. Take the computer and the pool for an example, what has this to do with the bukowski who wrote those action packed stories? He lost the control over his life, the control that was sometimes the only thing he had. This is a book to show the end of a great author, but not a book that stands for bukowskis work.
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2 of 2 people found the following review helpful:
3.0 out of 5 stars
How Close Is Bukowski to Being Canonized?, 8 Jul 1998
By A Customer
This collection of journal entries could appear to be getting at the heart of this author's eminently true-to-life writing, seeing as how his works are so autobiographical. But as he says in the book, "Pain doesn't make writing, a writer does." That is, Bukowski's arduous work as a writer created the dozens of titles under his name, not some unfiltered suffering and inspiration we may hope to find by digging through his sock drawer to find his diary. Judging from the tendancies of 20th century fame, I suppose the issuing of his journals should come as no surprise; it's only a matter of time until we want to know everything about our heroes. But when fame's momentum starts flying off the handle, when the surname of the artist can weigh enough to publish just about anything he or she has done, it is high time to assess where on the shelf Bukowski's books are placed. Are they alongside volumes of criticism/laudation and reprints with academic forewords and afterwords? Or will we grant his wish stated in his journal entry: "I'm just a block unto myself. I want to stay within that block, unmolested." It seems our inclination is to include him in the literary canon, but it is evident that Bukowski wishes otherwise, ironically so in these posthumously published journals. Consider: "When [the writer] is swayed by the critics, the editors, the publishers, the readers, then he's finished. And, of course, when he's swayed with his fame and his fortune, you can float him down the river with the turds." Where in this turd metaphor is us, his audience, who appears to be swayed by all of the above?
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by Charles Bukowski; Robert Crumb
by Charles Bukowski
by Charles Bukowski
by Charles Bukowski; Robert Crumb
