Late to Bukowski
|First read by me in January 2011. Yeah, so what?|
I didn't crack up my first anything by Charles Bukowski until January of this year. At thirty-two. Of course, I knew who he was and was as familiar with his work as I could be without having read any of it. I saw the film version of Factotum in the theater and loved it. I don't watch many films over and over again, but Factotum is one that I do.
I tried not to be embarrassed when I bought Post Office. I could feel the clerk, a person who I imagined tore through Bukowski with an unmatched literary fury by sixteen, look down on me through his glasses thinking was the simpleton I surely had to be.
Had I been interested in being cool and impressing clerks with my sophisticated taste, I'd have scrounged through a used book store with a "lost in a move" excuse.
Upon reflection, I'm glad I didn't read Post Office or anything else by him until I ventured into my early thirties because at sixteen or whenever young writers/misfits read Bukowski, I wouldn't have gotten it. Sure, I would have laughed and enjoyed it, the language, the antics, but the anger and sadness would've flown over my head.
I'm glad I didn't read him when I decided that I wanted to tell stories because I'm cringing at even imaging what hacky, heavily-influenced crap I might have spurned out in my early twenties (and to be clear, that hacky, heavy-influenced stuff is still there buried away on old hard drives for no one to ever see, just from different influences).
That said, I just got an idea for a sketch. Sorry, gotta go . . .