Charles Bukowski

Charles Bukowski I read a fine essay written by a friend of mine, Bukowski I thought he was a great poet and writer, whether the high table of the educated literate think, or not because from where he wrote, the side streets of life, unfamiliar to them. Many famous writers/poets drink; I think this is because they have finished writing for the day, they feel empty inside alcohol salivate the sense of tristesse, meeting friends for drinks as whisky and conversation flows Ernest Hemingway was a heavy drinker, which is overlooked by his admirers, he had been to Paris, the middle-class son of a doctor; his drinking had charm, the fishing and shooting When I read Bukowski’s novel the “post office” I remember opening the book, a rainy afternoon, absorbed by his art I lost track of time; I followed his journey doing menial tasks The boredom of having to make a living when all he wanted to do was to write against the odds; he did write and gave us, the beauty of his soul.