Hanging
Out in Bukowskiville
by Christian Prozak |
Author's Links |
Open All Night, by Charles Bukowski Black Sparrow Press, Santa Rosa, Ca. 361 pp. Hard to say what makes this posthumous collection more post-humorous than the rest: unnatural nature poems? (one great cat gits itself a wildebeest "his eyes like bottlecaps pray to the sky") surprising surrealism? ("slowly going the way of witches... and the clouds hold nothing hidden in creampuff jowls... the devils drink from the breasts of stunned maids; it is beginning to rain: fleck, fleck, fleck") daring poems pushing it? ("what you want to do and what you've got to do is the same thing... God is the invention of failures... the angels pissed themselves in fear. I am a beautiful person") more beauty than ever expected? ("and it dawns on me now that there is nothing so beautiful and pure and as perfect as the well written line") prophesizing omenly? ("the womb has spilled us into a sewer. new gods are needed. new doors must be opened") shades of Céline? ("and she just sitting there with her big beer gut hanging out. all the other passengers were less than nothing") plus honesty? ("the worst thing for me is not having somebody to talk to when something obvious must be said") or critical Omnip? ("observation put to action is the essence of art") or messages to audience? ("the reader is an afterthought, the placenta, an accident, and any writer who believes otherwise is a bigger fool than his following") Aye, Open All Night/ Bukowski is fear in the eyes of the bully a final terrible beautiful whore green dogs, dinosaur sky honeysuckle summer madness. Bukowski in Pictures, by Howard Sounes Rebel Inc., Edinburgh 153 pp. Over the past few years there's been a deluge of books about Bukowski hopping on the bandwagon of loyal readers who'll buy anything that has the name of their favorite alcoholic icon on it. Sounes states that Bukowski in Pictures is meant to be "a complementary book" to his 1999 biography Locked in the Arms of a Crazy Life which had to leave these pictures out. Still this "biography in pictures" ain't just pictures; half of it is text providing us with some new information mostly in the form of irate love letters and an FBI file. There's nothing very remarkable about the writing (or information, rather) though except that the style is objective in comparison to the other bios interviews and book-length essays published over the last few years in which personal perspective saturates the market. Bukowskiophiles will no doubt be intrigued by the visual aspect of this book in which we can see if the leggy bimbos of his fiction are really the "high-class pieces of tail" he professes them to be. Other pictures clarify the over-described yet visually limited (up until now) world of Bukowski: beyond the standard shots of a drunk old man in his underwear there are childhood photos, family photos car photos, apartment photos girlfriend photos, photos of friends wives, his daughter, his cats bartenders, book covers movie stars, etc. ranging from amateur snapshots to professional portraits. And in almost every image of Bukowski his stereotypical traits are there: he is either sporting a gaudy retro shirt caught with the scars of acne vulgaris or proudly brandishing a beer. One particularly disturbing picture is of his first wife: a no-neck mutant grinning in deformity. Another shows Bukowski posing with a fiberglass Colonel bearing a bucket of Kentucky fried chickenwings. In another he pretends to attack a girlfriend with a fork as she licks his pot-belly. We also see him taking out the trash drinking with sundry literati and of course, betting at the track. Usually he is hamming it up but in some he's depicted as a more subtle contemplator. Result: the strength of this book lies in its layout which is so self-conscious in its use of contrast and its filling of space that the outcome is a glossy savvy coffee-table artbook. And whereas other books about Bukowski have tried to rely on photos to show the Bukowski experience (particularly Shakespeare Never Did This) (by Bukowski hisself) this is the first book about Bukowski that's thought-out enough, and striking enough to lift the beer-bellied bard from the gutter while attributing a sophistication that American critics have always shied away from. Meaning that this is a good-looking book about a not very good-looking guy which can supply some colorful vivid characters to take the place of faceless names. But then again, nobody reads Bukowski to see the faces clearly. What sells Bukowski is an easy-to-relate-to narrative voice embellishing of drunken whores hangovers, crummy jobs and eventually the rise from all this; dredging humor from horror. This book is not a book that's needed but it is a book that's in demand (since Bukowskimania is now in full swing); giving images to imaginations that want to see more. |
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