About book You Get So Alone At Times That It Just Makes Sense (1986)
While the Beat Generation was making its headway in literature with the likes of On the Road and Howl, Bukowski was, in most instances, dead drunk. In the post-World War II lit movement where the Beat Generation found its threshold, Bukowski was in engaged in what was to be a ten-year alcohol induced stupor predicated on his failure to initially break in the literary world. He actually wrote in a time after the Beat Generation, and this perhaps have brought contentions of whether he is actually a Beatnik himself. If the Beat Generation talks about bohemian hedonism advancing a firm denial of conformity through experimentation with drugs, repudiation of social constructs of gender and sexuality, negation of societal materialism, and most importantly, the depiction of human condition and emotion in its truest and most explicit state, then, this collection pretty much speaks for itself and saying that he really is part of the generation is not an unfounded conclusion.In this collection, one will see that Bukowski is an honest man, a brutally honest man, whether that honesty is anchored on his drunkenness is something I have yet to read on. The topics are varied, from protitutes, antagonistic views on other writers, drinking, horse racing, hurling invectives, daily life observations, his cats, loneliness, and did I mention drinking? beasts bounding through timeVan Gogh writing his brother for paintsHemingway testing his shotgunCeline going broke as a doctor of medicinethe impossibility of being humanVillon expelled from Paris for being a thiefFaulkner drunk in the gutters of his townthe impossibility of being humanBurroughs killing his wife with a gunMailer stabbing histhe impossibility of being humanMaupassant going mad in a rowboatDostoevsky lined up against a wall to be shotCrane off the back of a boat into the propellerthe impossibilitySylvia with her head in the oven like a baked potatoHarry Crosby leaping into that Black SunLorca murdered in the road by the Spanish troopsthe impossibilityArtaud sitting on a madhouse benchChatterton drinking rat poisonShakespeare a plagiaristBeethoven with a horn stuck into his head against deafnessthe impossibility the impossibilityNietzsche gone totally madthe impossibility of being humanall too humanthis breathingin and outout and inthese punksthese cowardsthese championsthese mad dogs of glorymoving this little bit of light towardusimpossibly.As the title would suggest, loneliness abound the poems, but underneath it, just beyond the listless landscape that define most of our lives, lives a triumphant man who seem to have come into terms with loneliness itself not by finding meaning in others but by remaining firm and steadfast, unyielding, choosing to live in loneliness itself. how is your heart?...what matters most ishow well you walk through thefire.Indeed Bukowski, indeed!
The question I put to every poem - do I believe your truth, do I enjoy your lies? If both answers are a 'no' I'll consider them a stone cold sober waste of time. But let's move on to 'alkies'. I always had a sneaking suspicion that despite the obvious and secret trials and tribulations of being an alcoholic, (high functioning or otherwise) alcoholics are out there having so much more fun than I and additionally gaining great material and inspiration for that book, poem, song, film project. That's one of a myriad of excuses as to why I'm not being more creative - I'm simply not drunk enough. For any goodreaders and alcoholics who elect to be offended, note my joking tone. According to some of the poems here 'alkies' are akin to sullen teenagers dropping 'whatever' bombs before that slam of the door. There's a lot of too-cool-for-school shoulder shrugging, grunting, angst, road rage altercations and 'so it goes' kind of stuff that bores me a little - almond slivers of bravado going down sour. A few poems snapped me out of the inertia: '1813-1883', 'beasts bounding...' 'hot', '...crippled saints' 'how is your heart?' 'it's ours'.Back to truth and lies, the poetry is believable and real, but I wasn't inspired or entertained.
Do You like book You Get So Alone At Times That It Just Makes Sense (1986)?
This book I read after I read the Beautiful Creatures books. I only got to know of Bukowski through these books. And I do have to say that I loved this collection of poems, though it did not contain the poem Lena and Ethan quoted in the books and the movie - although they've been reading this copy of Bukowski's poems. Nevertheless I loved this copy and nearly every day read a poem out of it. Such a collection of poems I've never had! It's just great to have a book from which I can read an excerpt from every day, because they're just small poems written in every day situations.So I can only say that you should read this collection as well, if you enjoy reading poetry that's quite unusual. Bukowski just had this gift of expressing something normal in great phrases. I hope you'll enjoy this collection of poems and maybe will read the other collections of his poems as well.
—Kadyofbooks
This is one of my favorite collections of poetry. Charles Bukowski led a pretty rough life (he was an unapologetic, womanizing, violent drunk) which is reflected in his work. Some of his pieces are coarse, lewd, and downright graphic. But amongst all of the chaos and drunkeness he will write something beautiful and poignant, which seems even more so in contrast to then violent and lacivious poems around it. And that's kind of what poetry is, isn't it? Finding something beautiful in the everyday. For whatever reason, this does it for me.
—Kerstin
"Some men never die and some men never live and we're all alive tonight."Bukowski reminds me of my first time stepping foot in the Tate Museum of Modern Art (London) and staring at rocks on the floor. They were part of the exhibit. It irked me that someone was getting paid to do that. Anyone could do it. But no one did. This is Bukowski-- hell, he's got some moments where he twists his prose into remarkable, ethereal figurines, but most of the time he spits the words of a layman (drunken at that). Nevertheless, he says some things, straight up and with brutal honesty, that make you shudder for a moment, in dismay at the truth of what he's just said. And it applies to all of us, maybe so much that "nothing matters and we know nothing matters and that matters.."This is the first poetry chapbook I've read cover to cover (imaginary covers-- I read it on my Kindle). It left me a little dumbfounded. Some of the stuff in here is great, just utterly great. Philosophical insights (at times, deeply profound) from a drunken, rambling, semi-delusional writer. The best part of it is he says it as it is-- he's against war and pretension. He wants to be a nihilist, he really does, but the truth is when he wrote it "now Death is a plant growing in my mind.." and I think that made him figure some things out.Nihilism 101:"the courage it took to get out of bed each morning to face the same things over and over was enormous""each man's hell is in a different place: mine is just up and behind my ruined face.""agony sometimes changes form but it never ceases for anybody.""some accept the possibility of God to help them get through others take it straight on and to these I drink tonight.""True one of Lorca's best lines is, 'agony, always agony..." think of this when you kill a cockroach or pick up a razor to shave or awaken in the morning to face the sun.""something is working toward you right now, and I mean you and nobody but you.""complaint is often the result of an insufficient ability to live within the obvious restrictions of this god damned cage."But how true is it, all of it?Remember:"what matters most is how well you walk through the fire."
—Jauncheeto
