a brief piece i wrote on the anniversary of bukowski's death:
Fifteen years ago today, Charles Bukowski died. He was old and broken and leukemia ravaged his body, but almost to the end, he wrote—completing the novel Pulp shortly before he died. For a man who had spent so much of his life as a loser, he left behind a striking legacy: six novels, hundreds of short stories and thousands of poems, with 60 books in print at one point or another.
I had just turned 28 at the time, slouching toward the end of probably the most turbulent decade of my life (but, hey, it’s still early…) and I remember regarding his passing with almost casual acceptance. He had been an object of great interest to me in my younger years, not as a hero per se, but as a force, a looming figure who, like Hunter Thompson and William Burroughs, had forever transformed post-World War 2 literature, yet still traced his literary bloodline to past greats.
read it all here.
Fifteen years ago today, Charles Bukowski died. He was old and broken and leukemia ravaged his body, but almost to the end, he wrote—completing the novel Pulp shortly before he died. For a man who had spent so much of his life as a loser, he left behind a striking legacy: six novels, hundreds of short stories and thousands of poems, with 60 books in print at one point or another.
I had just turned 28 at the time, slouching toward the end of probably the most turbulent decade of my life (but, hey, it’s still early…) and I remember regarding his passing with almost casual acceptance. He had been an object of great interest to me in my younger years, not as a hero per se, but as a force, a looming figure who, like Hunter Thompson and William Burroughs, had forever transformed post-World War 2 literature, yet still traced his literary bloodline to past greats.
read it all here.
