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1. (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.

Shelves: fiction I have a sort of pre-emptive dislike-verging-on-loathing of Bukowski, which I think is rooted in my post-adolescent rejection of and disillusionment with the Beat writers whom I absolutely adored in high school. One I have a sort of pre-emptive dislike-verging-on-loathing of Bukowski, which I think is rooted in my post-adolescent rejection of and disillusionment with the Beat writers whom I absolutely adored in high school. One of my poet friends in high school once told me that he only would read Bukowski while taking a shit. This has stuck with me over the years. Once, a girl I became involved with praised Bukowski while simultaneously giving me a caveat about what a terrible sexist he was.

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Search Advanced search…. New posts. Search forums. Log in. For a better experience, please enable JavaScript in your browser before proceeding. 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. I'm sure those txt files could have some use ;. You can't beat a full-text-database for such reasons.

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So now Ecco makes less money, Linda makes less money, etc. I know, I'm not going to be popular for this stance, but if we cannot convince people like Ecco that there is money in publishing poetry, then for what other reason would they publish it?

They publish Bukowski to make money, period. If they make no money, they will not have an interest in publishing any new Bukowski books and may not care to continue to reprint older books. This is probably not going to happen, but for a lesser known poet, this could be a huge problem.

What publisher would spend the money to publish a book of poetry knowing that the people that would actually download it will probably just download it free and that his copies will sit in a warehouse or his garage, if he is like me?

My only advantage over the other one or two, who were beaten and chasen, was that I was sullen. When surrounded I was not terrified. They never attacked me but would finally turn on one of the others and beat them as I watched. What they need is success in one form or another. It can be love but it needn't be. How in the hell could a man enjoy being awakened at a. The bus driver leaned back and we roared along over this narrow cement strip surrounded by water and all the people in the bus, the twenty-five or forty or fifty-two people trusted him, but I never did.

Sometimes it was a new driver, and I thought, how do they select these sons of bitches? There's deep water on both sides of us and with one error of judgement he'll kill us all. It was ridiculous. Suppose he had an argument with his wife that morning?

Or cancer? Or visions of God? Bad teeth? He could do it. Dump us all. I knew that if I was driving that I would consider the possibility or desirability of drowning everybody. And sometimes, after just such considerations, possibility turns into reality.

For each Joan of Arc there is a Hitler perched at the other end of the teeter-totter. The old story of good and evil.

Charles Bukowski (Great Writers)

But none of the bus drivers ever dumped us. They were thinking instead of car payments, baseball scores, haircuts, vacations, enemas, family visits. There wasn't a real man in the whole shitload. Even the most horrible human being on earth deserves to wipe his ass. Now like every American boy I had always been told: catch cancer early.

Then you go down to catch it early and they make you wait three weeks for an appointment. That's the difference between what we're told and actuality. He loaded five or six of us in one cab, and we rolled down to the bed of the L. Now in those days the L. River was a fake - there was no water, just a wide, flat, dry cement runway. The bums lived down there by the hundreds in little cement alcoves under the bridges and overpasses.

Some of them even had potted plants in front of their places. All they needed to live like kings was canned heat Sterno and what they picked out of the nearby garbage dump.

They were tan and relaxed and most of them looked a hell of a lot healthier than the average Los Angeles business man. Those guys down there had no problems with women, income tax, landlords, burial expenses, dentists, time payments, car repairs, or with climbing into a voting booth and pulling the curtain closed.

There were always all these usable bodies. And I wanted to be a writer. Almost everybody was a writer. Not everybody thought they could be a dentist or an automobile mechanic but everybody knew they could be a writer. Of those fifty guys in the room, probably fifteen of them thought they were writers.

Almost everybody used words and could write them down, i. But most men, fortunately, aren't writers, or even cab drivers, and some men - many men - unfortunately aren't anything. I like being at odds with everything.

People in love often become edgy, dangerous. They lose their sense of perspective. They lose their sense of humor. They become nervous, psychotic bores. They even become killers.

Factotum charles bukowski pdf

Human relationships didn't work anyhow. Only the first two weeks had any zing, then the participants lost their interest. Masks dropped away and real people began to appear: cranks, imbeciles, the demented, the vengeful, sadists, killers.

Modern society had created its own kind and they feasted on each other. It was a duel to the death--in a cesspool. People with no morals often considered themselves more free, but mostly they lacked the ability to feel hate or love.

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Morals were restrictive, but they were grounded on human experience. Many a good man has been put under the bridge by a woman. Once a woman turns against you, forget it. They can love you, then something turns in them. They can watch you dying in a gutter, run over by a car, and they'll spit on you. I was drawn to all the wrong things: I liked to drink, I was lazy, I didn't have a god, politics, ideas, ideals. I was settled into nothingness; a kind of non-being, and I accepted it.

I didn't make for an interesting person. I didn't want to be interesting, it was too hard.

What I really wanted was only a soft, hazy space to live in, and to be left alone. On the other hand, when I got drunk I screamed, went crazy, got all out of hand.

One kind of behavior didn't fit the other. I didn't care. Nothing was ever in tune. People just blindly grabbed at whatever there was: communism, health foods, zen, surfing, ballet, hypnotism, group encounters, orgies, biking, herbs, Catholicism, weight-lifting, travel, withdrawal, vegetarianism, India, painting, writing, sculpting, composing, conducting, backpacking, yoga, copulating, gambling, drinking, hanging around, frozen yogurt, Beethoven, Bach, Buddha, Christ, TM, H, carrot juice, suicide, handmade suits, jet travel, New York City, and then it all evaporated and fell apart.

People had to find things to do while waiting to die.

I guess it was nice to have a choice. Ham On Rye [ edit ] And my own affairs were as bad, as dismal, as the day I had been born. The only difference was that now I could drink now and then, though never often enough. Drink was the only thing that kept a man from feeling forever stunned and useless. Everything else just kept picking and picking, hacking away. And nothing was interesting, nothing. The people were restrictive and careful, all alike. And I've got to live with these fuckers for the rest of my life, I thought.

God, they all had assholes and sexual organs and their mouths and their armpits.

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They shit and they chattered and they were dull as horse dung. The girls looked good from a distance, the sun shining through their dresses, their hair. But get up close and listen to their minds running out of their mouths, you felt like digging in under a hill and hiding out with a tommy-gun.

I would certainly never be able to be happy, to get married, I could never have children.

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Hell, I couldn't even get a job as a dishwasher. The problem was you had to keep choosing between one evil or another, and no matter what you chose, they sliced a little more off you, until there was nothing left. At the age of 25 most people were finished. A whole goddamned nation of assholes driving automobiles, eating, having babies, doing everything in the worst way possible, like voting for the presidential candidate who reminded them most of themselves.