I grasped it, opened it to the introduction by Barry Miles, read two lines, then - promptly and gleefully -borrowed it.
I was introduced, quite randomly, to Bukowski in Prague in the dark, moody but Christmasy November of 2014.
Somewhere along the line, during the many hours I'd spent holed up in the city's (awesome) Globe English bookstore & cafe, I'd come across and then left with Barry Miles' 2009 biography of Bukowski.
This volume I'd just as promptly devoured, hanging onto Miles' every word, even before my return flight to Cape Town had landed a day or two later.
I've been a fan ever since, especially savouring his short stories but still to acquaint myself with his poetry.
He's hardcore!
What follows is the first paragraph of Miles' introduction in the novel (Virgin Books: 2009) I've just borrowed, and again, I love every word, which both titillates and inspires me:
"Charles Bukowski was the poet of Los Angeles. Not the LA of ranch homes in the Hollywood Hills with the breathtaking views of the glittering chequerboard of lights, the swimming pools, palm trees and sports cars lined up in the drive, but the LA of tarnished dreams, of dead-end jobs, of hookers and workers in the sex industry, of beaten down, damaged, dysfunctional people. His people. He loved old Hollywood: the cheaply built bungalows shaken by the freeways, dead palm trees and cracked sidewalks, overflowing garbage cans, cars up on blocks, the neighbours' TVs blaring through open windows, screams in the night and police helicopters circling overhead. He loved the corner bars, the tawdry fast-food outlets, the sex shops and brothels, the graffiti on walls and thick steel security bars on the shop fronts and liquor stores. It was his city."
Yes, it was his people and his city.
Both of these men, Bukowski and Miles, know how to write.
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