only them be there.
I have been alone but seldom
lonely.
I have satisfied my thirst
at the well
of my self
and that wine was good,
the best I ever had,
and tonight
sitting
staring into the dark
I now finally understand
the dark and the
light and everything
in between.
peace of mind and heart
arrives
when we accept what
is:
having been
born into this
strange life
we must accept
the wasted gamble of our
days
and take some satisfaction in
the pleasure of
leaving it all
behind.
cry not for me.
grieve not for me.
read
what I’ve written
then
forget it
all.
drink from the well
of your self
and begin
again.
EXTRACT
FROM CHARLES BUKOWSKI’S
HOLLYWOOD
ALSO AVAILABLE FROM CANONGATE
Bukowski’s alter ego, Henry Chinaski, returns, revelling in his eternal penchant for booze, women and horse-racing as he makes the precarious journey from poet to screenwriter. Based on Bukowski’s experiences when working on the film Barfly, Hollywood is an irreverent roman à clef serving up the beating heart of La-la land with razor-sharp humour.
‘As always there is an unerring accuracy to his insight, and no other book gets as
close to the corrupt heart of American movie-making.’ Guardian
‘Charles Bukowski has written a classic in the take-the-money-and-don’t-run
category of Hollywood fiction. This is the genre wherein Real Writers who have
been seduced into screenwriting (than which nothing is more lowercase) live to tell
all shamelessly.’ New York Times Book Review
£7.99
ISBN 978 1 84195 996 2
CHAPTER ONE
A COUPLE OF days later Pinchot phoned. He said he wanted to go ahead with the screenplay. We should come down and see him?
So we got the directions and were in the Volks and heading for Marina del Rey. Strange territory.
Then we were down at the harbor, driving past the boats. Most of them were sailboats and people were fiddling about on deck. They were dressed in their special sailing clothes, caps, dark shades. Somehow, most of them had apparently escaped the daily grind of living. They had never been caught up in that grind and never would be. Such were the rewards of the Chosen in the land of the free. After a fashion, those people looked silly to me. And, of course, I wasn’t even in their thoughts.
We turned right, down from the docks and went past streets laid out in alphabetical order, with fancy names. We found the street, turned left, found the number, pulled into the driveway. The sand came right up to us and the ocean was close enough to be seen and far enough away to be safe. The sand seemed cleaner than other sand and the water seemed bluer and the breeze seemed kinder.
‘Look,’ I said to Sarah, ‘we have just landed upon the outpost of death. My soul is puking.’
‘Will you stop worrying about your soul?’ Sarah responded.
No need to lock the Volks. I was the only one who could start it.
We were at the door. I knocked.
It opened to this tall slim delicate type, you smelled artistry all over him. You could see he had been born to Create, to Create grand things, totally unhindered, never bothered by such petty things as toothache, self-doubt, lousy luck. He was one of those who looked like a genius. I looked like a dishwasher so these types always pissed me just a bit.
‘We’re here to pick up the dirty laundry,’ I said.
‘Ignore him,’ Sarah interspersed. ‘Pinchot suggested we come by.’
‘Ewe,’ said the gentleman, ‘ do come in …’
We followed him and his little rabbit cheeks. He stopped then, at some special edge, he was charming, and he spoke over his left shoulder as if the entire world were listening to his delicate proclamation:
‘I go get my VOD-KA now!’
He flashed off into the kitchen.
‘Jon mentioned him the other night,’ said Sarah. ‘He is Paul Renoir. He writes operas and is also working in a form known as the Opera-Movie. Very avant-garde.’
‘He may be
I have been alone but seldom
lonely.
I have satisfied my thirst
at the well
of my self
and that wine was good,
the best I ever had,
and tonight
sitting
staring into the dark
I now finally understand
the dark and the
light and everything
in between.
peace of mind and heart
arrives
when we accept what
is:
having been
born into this
strange life
we must accept
the wasted gamble of our
days
and take some satisfaction in
the pleasure of
leaving it all
behind.
cry not for me.
grieve not for me.
read
what I’ve written
then
forget it
all.
drink from the well
of your self
and begin
again.
EXTRACT
FROM CHARLES BUKOWSKI’S
HOLLYWOOD
ALSO AVAILABLE FROM CANONGATE
Bukowski’s alter ego, Henry Chinaski, returns, revelling in his eternal penchant for booze, women and horse-racing as he makes the precarious journey from poet to screenwriter. Based on Bukowski’s experiences when working on the film Barfly, Hollywood is an irreverent roman à clef serving up the beating heart of La-la land with razor-sharp humour.
‘As always there is an unerring accuracy to his insight, and no other book gets as
close to the corrupt heart of American movie-making.’ Guardian
‘Charles Bukowski has written a classic in the take-the-money-and-don’t-run
category of Hollywood fiction. This is the genre wherein Real Writers who have
been seduced into screenwriting (than which nothing is more lowercase) live to tell
all shamelessly.’ New York Times Book Review
£7.99
ISBN 978 1 84195 996 2
CHAPTER ONE
A COUPLE OF days later Pinchot phoned. He said he wanted to go ahead with the screenplay. We should come down and see him?
So we got the directions and were in the Volks and heading for Marina del Rey. Strange territory.
Then we were down at the harbor, driving past the boats. Most of them were sailboats and people were fiddling about on deck. They were dressed in their special sailing clothes, caps, dark shades. Somehow, most of them had apparently escaped the daily grind of living. They had never been caught up in that grind and never would be. Such were the rewards of the Chosen in the land of the free. After a fashion, those people looked silly to me. And, of course, I wasn’t even in their thoughts.
We turned right, down from the docks and went past streets laid out in alphabetical order, with fancy names. We found the street, turned left, found the number, pulled into the driveway. The sand came right up to us and the ocean was close enough to be seen and far enough away to be safe. The sand seemed cleaner than other sand and the water seemed bluer and the breeze seemed kinder.
‘Look,’ I said to Sarah, ‘we have just landed upon the outpost of death. My soul is puking.’
‘Will you stop worrying about your soul?’ Sarah responded.
No need to lock the Volks. I was the only one who could start it.
We were at the door. I knocked.
It opened to this tall slim delicate type, you smelled artistry all over him. You could see he had been born to Create, to Create grand things, totally unhindered, never bothered by such petty things as toothache, self-doubt, lousy luck. He was one of those who looked like a genius. I looked like a dishwasher so these types always pissed me just a bit.
‘We’re here to pick up the dirty laundry,’ I said.
‘Ignore him,’ Sarah interspersed. ‘Pinchot suggested we come by.’
‘Ewe,’ said the gentleman, ‘ do come in …’
We followed him and his little rabbit cheeks. He stopped then, at some special edge, he was charming, and he spoke over his left shoulder as if the entire world were listening to his delicate proclamation:
‘I go get my VOD-KA now!’
He flashed off into the kitchen.
‘Jon mentioned him the other night,’ said Sarah. ‘He is Paul Renoir. He writes operas and is also working in a form known as the Opera-Movie. Very avant-garde.’
‘He may be
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