I first learned of Bukowski via the Showtime series, Californication when the main character, Hank Moody, would sometimes reference the hard-living, California-based poet/author. I later learned Moody was based in part, on Bukowski himself, a sort of arms-length ode to a great talent who remains unknown to many and loved by some.
That devoted anonymity would have pleased Bukowski nearly as much as a nearly-full bottle of properly aged Scotch.
No person has expressed so well what it is to write, to create, to strive, to struggle, to fail, to rise, to fall, than Charles Bukowski.
Here is Bukowski’s advice to those who fall prey to the lure of the written word, that confounding aspirational mess that has left many far greater and more talented than I, a mental shell of their former selves upon completion of that journey, for with each life created upon the page it seems a little less of the author is left.
I recall reading some years ago how writing is a form of prolonged suicide.
I didn’t get it then.
I do now.
D.W. Ulsterman is a bestselling, award-winning author and socio-political commentator.
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