I like eating books up
Read my first Bukowski, Post Office, in two days. I really liked it. Here’s a couple of passages that tickled me:
I walked back into the bedroom just as Fay was putting a chocolate in her mouth.
“Look, Fay,” I said, “I know you want to save the world. But can’t you start in the kitchen?”
“Kitchens aren’t important,” she said.
It was difficult to hit a woman with grey hair so I just went into the bathroom and let the water run into the tub. A burning bath might cool the nerves.
and…
(after she gave birth to their child) Fay had a spot of blood on the left side of her mouth and I took a wet cloth and wiped it off. Women were meant to suffer; no wonder they asked for constant declarations of love.
I’m currently still accepting applications for membership in the Edmonton chapter of the Charles Bukowski Memorial Drinking Club.
I pulled The Night and the Naked (aka, The Strumpet Wind) from my bookshelf. I’m not really into it. Too war-ry. It apparantly has “Hemingwayesque” love scenes. Here’s the only one I’ve found so far:
She snapped off the light and opened the door. She stood in the doorway naked, her slim body outlined in the light of the small (and slim - aesthetic appliance ed.) lamp. Roger (mwaa haa - immature ed.) was sitting on the side of the bed, wearing a light robe. He crossed to her. She watched the shadows play across the flat muscles of his chest and stomach. She caught her breath as his body closed to hers. She could feel him rigid against her. The mouths met (Hey. How are ya? - Sarcastic ed.) and a convulsion threw their bodies tight against each other. She could feel his hands travelling down her back (Roman hands and Russian fingers - Heather’s mom ed), his long fingers close around her waist. He lifted her slightly from the floor, holding her flat against him, and carried her to the bed. He laid her (Whoah, buddy - slow down! Oh. - finish reading the sentence ed.) down gently. He stood over her (wondering how he could gracefully extricate himself from the situation - naughty ed.), held by her eyes. He felt again the curious (nausea - knock it off ed.) plunging sensation he had known that afternoon, losing his balance, sinking through to the very core of her (ouch - ouch ed.). He lay down beside her and she gathered him into her arms with a little cry (too easy - fish in a barrel ed.). For an instant he was numb with the shock of possession. Even when physical sensations began to return to him, he was scarcely conscious of them. He was carried beyond physical awareness, immersed in the essence of the girl, in her quality of being. He ceased to exist within himself. Everything was forgotten. For both of them, the whole world lay shimmering within in their embrace. They made love instinctively, graspingly, heedless of their act, striving to attain the impossible fusion (hell of a band name, Impossible Fusion - band name ed.), until, shuddering, they broke beyond the boundaries of self.
What?!? That’s it? Where’s the grunting? The nibbling? The liquids? All the things I’ve heard about on late-night t.v. and the internet? Bah! Maybe he faded out, as it were, ’cause he was gay and couldn’t write straight love scenes. Or maybe it was because it was the late forties. Or maybe he was trying too hard to be Hemingwayesque.
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