I haven't been subscribed to this substack for long, but content like this is why I initially subscribed. I have you to thank for introducing me to Bukowski. I read year round and have for decades, but somehow I had never heard of him. In the last three months or so I've read: "Post Office," "Women," "Hollywood," and "Factotum" (in that order). I'm also working my way through one of his poetry collections. We're told we should be reading the "Classics," and I do, but nothing has ever grabbed me like Charles Bukowski. He writes about real lived human experience like no one else. Anyway, thanks again, and keep it coming!
This article explores the complexity and uniqueness of Charles Bukowski's art, which Erik memorably describes as "a cocktail of vulgarity, grime, sharp wit, criticism, elitism, and a hefty dose of self-loathing." But it is also (and this is the point) an art that captures "the messy yet marvelous landscape of the human soul." What a fine, balanced article this is!
Bukowski’s poetry is the first that ever knocked the wind out of me as a young poet myself. For someone so numbed by booze as CB, it astounded me how sharply he could skewer the difficult soul of the seemingly most meaningless thing (“..alone / untouched / unspoken to / watering a plant..”). Something in the ugliness made it more beautiful—almost like it made them the same thing.
Interesting. I'm currently thinking how beauty can transform ugliness. But maybe (as you suggest) there's something deep in ugliness that either 'beautifies' the ugliness itself - and/or adds even more beauty to beauty.
If a true question contains its own answer, then there's no reason why a true understanding of ugliness should not reveal its own (otherwise hidden) beauty. {How that might work with the ugliness of war and violence, or structural poverty, I'm not sure}.
Joshua, thank you for this. To me, the ugly and beautiful being “the same thing” is a way of saying they are both part of the human experience as a whole, and not separately but always at the same time. Bukowski looked unflinchingly at all of it, he didn’t rob us of bearing witness to either. He forced me to look at the reality of the ugliness the cruelty of oppressive systems caused. In those places where I’d never looked, he broke my heart open with tenderness. A kind of shock would run through me. Like maybe everything I was taught about what was beautiful or ugly was too overly sanitized and simplified, deliberately hidden or disguised. To me he was clear and sharp as a knife, no bullshit, no lipstick on the pig. A sinister place where the discomfort was a comfort. An enigma.
Thank you Allison. It makes me also think of means and ends. To me, the end never justifies the means. It's a logical impossibility because Means and Ends are 'One-Thing'. (Aldous Huxley's 1937 book 'Ends & Means). Also Gandhi's statement "A violent war begets a violent peace". The energy in the process (means) by which something is done will also be the same energy inhabiting the end, or finished result.
I'm thinking now if ugliness and beauty are also 'One-Thing', (or "the same thing" as you write) what actually is the 'One-Thing' at a deeper level which we could experience; and what name might it have? Is there a 'tighter' word than saying that both are part of human experience.
Maybe that 'name' is the experience of Bukowski's poems - or of 'real poetry' (I'm thinking of the quote from Emily Dickinson "If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know THAT is poetry. If I feel physically the top of my head were taken off, I know THAT is poetry".
Perhaps also the attempt to love the unlovable is one way whereby we experience beauty and ugliness as "the same thing". And Bukowski reveals that to us.
Anyway, thank you for the conversation - it's made me think more about which of my poems I want to put on Substack, and which not.
Ahh, love your share of Dickinson... perhaps that is what poetry is for: getting us to a place where there are no names for things. A language for getting us beyond written language. We are left to describe how it feels in the body, physically. Sending you good tidings in all things, Josh. It has been a pleasure. :)
I ‘liked’ this post within seconds of you posting it. I’m a big fan of Bukowski; anytime someone writes anything about him, I’m definitely going to read it and enjoy it whether it’s critical of him, or praising his work.
Wow! I've never been a fan of his work or as you put it "despise it with every fiber of my being". But these are some brilliant answers that I really connected with!
Interesting interview. I will take exception to his opinion of John Lennon. Lennon was same as Bukowski except he got high, not drunk. I think people get Lennon wrong.
Bukowski is a legend. His gravestone has perhaps the greatest line possible on a stone of this nature: "Don't try." The most aching of souls; the purest of genius.
Bukowski has often been misunderstood. I’ve been a fan since before he passed and am sad I didn’t see him read live. It’s a privilege to read such a mastermind. Some revere him and some find him revolting. I’m of the former. This man was, is, and always will be a legend.
My dad was a drunk like Bukowski. Sad. And in those days it seemed like everybody was drunk or drunk on something - the 60's-70's. Everybody had PTSD from world war, atomic bombs, military hubris, hatred, smug arrogance, willful ignorance. Everybody drunk on something. I was a kid then and very disappointed with the adults. Most people, like today, were fuckups. I do like a lot of Bukowski's poems but he should have been more fierce with himself. Polished his mirror, dug deeper. But hey, that's everybody's problem. Nice article Eric. I wouldn't want to be around him on daily basis, a toxic fucker accepting and indulging in a toxic life. "Put the fucking bottle down asshole. Wake the fuck up. Have some self respect." as I drag his sorry ass out of the bar at 7:00am like I had to do with my dad on occasion. Fucking pitiful. But also hard to overcome while living in the fog. No drunk wants to get down in the bedrock and fix the foundation. Who want's to do that? But a life of heroic avoidance while standing in the ruins bitching, moaning and complaining and writing poems about it does not make you a hero. That shit is pissing me off now that I am thinking about it.
He wrote thousands of poems and short stories. And a handful of novels. He's quoted all over the world. They made movies about his life. He gave voice to the downtrodden and disenfranchised. He did more than most. It's not the writer's job to fix the world. It's the writers job to paint an honest picture of the world we inhabit. In his own words: “You begin saving the world by saving one man at a time; all else is grandiose romanticism or politics.”
“You begin saving the world by saving one man at a time; all else is grandiose romanticism or politics.” But do you think Bukowski saved himself? And what does it mean anyway "to save oneself" (that's an open question - I haven't a clue). It also reminds me of the last section of Mary Oliver's poem "The Journey":
Thanks for responding Eric. Yes, agreed, but one has to start with one's self. If anyone can be saved, oneself is the only "one man at a time" anyone can save. Beyond that "all else is grandiose romanticism or politics.” as he said. (or 'standing in the ruins bitching, moaning and complaining' as I said). You have to save yourself first before you have a chance to put your hand out to save anyone else. For the writer "to paint an honest picture of the world we inhabit" starts with a clear and sober mind. Like Allan Watts said in the previous post: Stop Aspiring and Start Writing: 'tell us something that will save us from ourselves.'
Of course, there is documentary value recording other states of mind. A cautionary tale if nothing else perhaps. Of course, Bukowski and everybody else is welcome to scratch out whatever message they wish where ever they find themselves and at any given time that message will resonate with anyone finding themselves is a similar place. As humans we need markers at every part of the trail: 'Bukowski was here' or 'Kilgore was here'. There is something reassuring about that when you come across those signs like petroglyphs out here in the high desert.
I love the story about when somebody approached Bukowski at the racetrack and asked for his autograpph in a book of his poetry, he spat right onto the page.
I haven't been subscribed to this substack for long, but content like this is why I initially subscribed. I have you to thank for introducing me to Bukowski. I read year round and have for decades, but somehow I had never heard of him. In the last three months or so I've read: "Post Office," "Women," "Hollywood," and "Factotum" (in that order). I'm also working my way through one of his poetry collections. We're told we should be reading the "Classics," and I do, but nothing has ever grabbed me like Charles Bukowski. He writes about real lived human experience like no one else. Anyway, thanks again, and keep it coming!
This article explores the complexity and uniqueness of Charles Bukowski's art, which Erik memorably describes as "a cocktail of vulgarity, grime, sharp wit, criticism, elitism, and a hefty dose of self-loathing." But it is also (and this is the point) an art that captures "the messy yet marvelous landscape of the human soul." What a fine, balanced article this is!
I love Bukowksi's attack on the high and mighty in poetry. I admire that and aspire to remove pretention from my own work.
Thank you for sharing this. It's marvelous.
Bukowski’s poetry is the first that ever knocked the wind out of me as a young poet myself. For someone so numbed by booze as CB, it astounded me how sharply he could skewer the difficult soul of the seemingly most meaningless thing (“..alone / untouched / unspoken to / watering a plant..”). Something in the ugliness made it more beautiful—almost like it made them the same thing.
Interesting. I'm currently thinking how beauty can transform ugliness. But maybe (as you suggest) there's something deep in ugliness that either 'beautifies' the ugliness itself - and/or adds even more beauty to beauty.
If a true question contains its own answer, then there's no reason why a true understanding of ugliness should not reveal its own (otherwise hidden) beauty. {How that might work with the ugliness of war and violence, or structural poverty, I'm not sure}.
Joshua, thank you for this. To me, the ugly and beautiful being “the same thing” is a way of saying they are both part of the human experience as a whole, and not separately but always at the same time. Bukowski looked unflinchingly at all of it, he didn’t rob us of bearing witness to either. He forced me to look at the reality of the ugliness the cruelty of oppressive systems caused. In those places where I’d never looked, he broke my heart open with tenderness. A kind of shock would run through me. Like maybe everything I was taught about what was beautiful or ugly was too overly sanitized and simplified, deliberately hidden or disguised. To me he was clear and sharp as a knife, no bullshit, no lipstick on the pig. A sinister place where the discomfort was a comfort. An enigma.
Thank you Allison. It makes me also think of means and ends. To me, the end never justifies the means. It's a logical impossibility because Means and Ends are 'One-Thing'. (Aldous Huxley's 1937 book 'Ends & Means). Also Gandhi's statement "A violent war begets a violent peace". The energy in the process (means) by which something is done will also be the same energy inhabiting the end, or finished result.
I'm thinking now if ugliness and beauty are also 'One-Thing', (or "the same thing" as you write) what actually is the 'One-Thing' at a deeper level which we could experience; and what name might it have? Is there a 'tighter' word than saying that both are part of human experience.
Maybe that 'name' is the experience of Bukowski's poems - or of 'real poetry' (I'm thinking of the quote from Emily Dickinson "If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know THAT is poetry. If I feel physically the top of my head were taken off, I know THAT is poetry".
Perhaps also the attempt to love the unlovable is one way whereby we experience beauty and ugliness as "the same thing". And Bukowski reveals that to us.
Anyway, thank you for the conversation - it's made me think more about which of my poems I want to put on Substack, and which not.
Ahh, love your share of Dickinson... perhaps that is what poetry is for: getting us to a place where there are no names for things. A language for getting us beyond written language. We are left to describe how it feels in the body, physically. Sending you good tidings in all things, Josh. It has been a pleasure. :)
Thank you. Nice summary; you've nailed the essence. Neat :)
Fucking brilliant.
I ‘liked’ this post within seconds of you posting it. I’m a big fan of Bukowski; anytime someone writes anything about him, I’m definitely going to read it and enjoy it whether it’s critical of him, or praising his work.
Wow! I've never been a fan of his work or as you put it "despise it with every fiber of my being". But these are some brilliant answers that I really connected with!
Bluebird is an absolute beast of a poem. it’s the only bukowski anyone needs to read. Everything else is bonus territory.
Interesting interview. I will take exception to his opinion of John Lennon. Lennon was same as Bukowski except he got high, not drunk. I think people get Lennon wrong.
Totally agree👍🏻☮️
Reading Bukowski’s poems is like looking in the mirror on Monday morning to shave after a long weekend and realizing your beard has turned gray.
Turned gray and smells like cheese & you have vague memories of having a twisted good time.
Bukowski is a legend. His gravestone has perhaps the greatest line possible on a stone of this nature: "Don't try." The most aching of souls; the purest of genius.
Bukowski has often been misunderstood. I’ve been a fan since before he passed and am sad I didn’t see him read live. It’s a privilege to read such a mastermind. Some revere him and some find him revolting. I’m of the former. This man was, is, and always will be a legend.
My dad was a drunk like Bukowski. Sad. And in those days it seemed like everybody was drunk or drunk on something - the 60's-70's. Everybody had PTSD from world war, atomic bombs, military hubris, hatred, smug arrogance, willful ignorance. Everybody drunk on something. I was a kid then and very disappointed with the adults. Most people, like today, were fuckups. I do like a lot of Bukowski's poems but he should have been more fierce with himself. Polished his mirror, dug deeper. But hey, that's everybody's problem. Nice article Eric. I wouldn't want to be around him on daily basis, a toxic fucker accepting and indulging in a toxic life. "Put the fucking bottle down asshole. Wake the fuck up. Have some self respect." as I drag his sorry ass out of the bar at 7:00am like I had to do with my dad on occasion. Fucking pitiful. But also hard to overcome while living in the fog. No drunk wants to get down in the bedrock and fix the foundation. Who want's to do that? But a life of heroic avoidance while standing in the ruins bitching, moaning and complaining and writing poems about it does not make you a hero. That shit is pissing me off now that I am thinking about it.
He wrote thousands of poems and short stories. And a handful of novels. He's quoted all over the world. They made movies about his life. He gave voice to the downtrodden and disenfranchised. He did more than most. It's not the writer's job to fix the world. It's the writers job to paint an honest picture of the world we inhabit. In his own words: “You begin saving the world by saving one man at a time; all else is grandiose romanticism or politics.”
“You begin saving the world by saving one man at a time; all else is grandiose romanticism or politics.” But do you think Bukowski saved himself? And what does it mean anyway "to save oneself" (that's an open question - I haven't a clue). It also reminds me of the last section of Mary Oliver's poem "The Journey":
"But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save."
Thanks for responding Eric. Yes, agreed, but one has to start with one's self. If anyone can be saved, oneself is the only "one man at a time" anyone can save. Beyond that "all else is grandiose romanticism or politics.” as he said. (or 'standing in the ruins bitching, moaning and complaining' as I said). You have to save yourself first before you have a chance to put your hand out to save anyone else. For the writer "to paint an honest picture of the world we inhabit" starts with a clear and sober mind. Like Allan Watts said in the previous post: Stop Aspiring and Start Writing: 'tell us something that will save us from ourselves.'
Of course, there is documentary value recording other states of mind. A cautionary tale if nothing else perhaps. Of course, Bukowski and everybody else is welcome to scratch out whatever message they wish where ever they find themselves and at any given time that message will resonate with anyone finding themselves is a similar place. As humans we need markers at every part of the trail: 'Bukowski was here' or 'Kilgore was here'. There is something reassuring about that when you come across those signs like petroglyphs out here in the high desert.
I love the story about when somebody approached Bukowski at the racetrack and asked for his autograpph in a book of his poetry, he spat right onto the page.
I don't have anything significant to add, I just want to comment and appreciate how great of a fucking post this is
I've always enjoyed Bukowski's work, as confronting as it can be. This was oddly enlightening, thank you for sharing!