Come On In!. Charles Bukowski

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      during his Hollywood period.”

      “all right,” I said and we got into his

      car and he drove me there and pointed

      it out:

      “Fitzgerald lived there.”

      “all right,” I said and then he drove us

      back for more coffee.

      Tom was truly excited about these

      literary figures of the past.

      I was too, to an extent,

      but as Tom talked on and on about

      them

      and the coffees continued unabated

      my interest began to wane, more than

      wane.

      I began to want to get rid of

      Tom.

      it was easy.

      one day I wrote a poem about Tom

      and it was published and he read

      it

      and after that

      we enjoyed no more coffees

      together.

      Tom had been working on a

      biography of me

      and that ended that.

      then another writer came along

      and he drank my wine

      and didn’t talk about Hemingway,

      Fitzgerald, Faulkner, etc.,

      he talked about himself

      and ended up writing a not-very-

      satisfactory biography

      of me.

      I should have stuck with Tom.

      no, I should have gotten rid of

      both of them.

      which is exactly what I have

      done.

       this machine is a fountain

      my system is always the same:

      keep it loose

      write a great number of

      poems

      try with all your

      heart and

      don’t worry about the

      bad

      ones.

      keep it going

      keep it

      hot

      forget about immortality

      if you ever

      remembered

      it.

      the sound of this machine is

      good.

      much paper

      more desire.

      just

      hammer away and wait for lady

      luck.

      what a

      bargain.

       200 years

      hunched over this white sheet of paper

      at 4 in the afternoon. I

      received a letter from a young poet this morning

      informing me that I was one of the most

      important writers of the last

      200 years.

      well, now, one can’t believe that

      especially if one has felt as I have

      this past month,

      walking about,

      thinking,

      surely I am going crazy,

      and then thinking,

      I can’t write

      anymore.

      and then I remember the factories,

      the production lines,

      the warehouses,

      the time clocks,

      overtime and layoffs

      and flirtations with the Mexican girls

      on the assembly line;

      each day everything was carefully planned,

      there was always something to do,

      there was more than enough to do,

      and if you didn’t keep up,

      if you weren’t clever and swift and

      obedient

      you were out with the sparrows and

      the bums.

      writing’s different, you’re floating out there in the

      white air, you’re hanging from the high-wire,

      you’re sitting up in a tree and they’re working at

      the trunk with a power

      saw …

      there’s no silk scarf about one’s neck,

      no СКАЧАТЬ