The stories often run shorter than the usual short stories, reminiscences abound, and Bukowski even goes on rambling rants. To say there’s no other Bukowski book like this is about half true discounting More Notes From A Dirty Old Man. As always, Bukowski’s writing is mostly without fault save for infer/imply confusion here and the political rant coming off rather dated and actually surprisingly sterile for a dirty old man.
Bukowski wrote this stuff for a column of the same name in a paper, I think called Open City in L.A. An underground thing? It’s interesting how long he stayed underground, because it was the same material that he always did. Kinda like how Miles Davis was just blowing the same sort of notes in 1955 as he blew in 1949 but all the sudden Columbia was knocking. It makes fame look like a rather fickle bitch, but that’s the way it goes. Again I go back to Miller because it seems he wrote thousands of pages of shit before he got to Tropic Of Cancer, then he went straight back to writing thousands of pages of crap, only he published them. Again, Bukowski was pretty much good right from the get-go although he supposedly got stories rejected on a very regular basis before the poetry bug got to him.
I guess it interests me so much because one person could maintain it and the other one fell completely apart both before and after the lightning hit. Kinda like The Wachowskis before and after The Matrix. Some things I’ll never understand. But hey, that’s what it means to live and I don’t knock it.