Living On Luck

Charles Bukowski

• Publisher: Ecco
• Year: 2009
• Print ISBN: 9780876859810
• eBook ISBN: 9780061881862
• Subtopic: Drama

· 1970 ·

Carl Weissner, editor of a German little magazine, became Bukowski’s German translator and literary agent, as well as regular correspondent and friend.

[To Carl Weissner]

January 20, 1970

[^***] I am out of the god damned post office and I am playing typewriter-boy and painter. If I fall flat it is my own fault—the child support, the rent, the utilities still come due, and I do love the child, would hate to lose her. 12 years on the job, and then to finally quit it, cold, half a century old. The first ten days I damn near went outa my skull—didn’t know what to do with my hands, my feet, my mind. I almost cracked. And after a series of drunks at wild parties and alone, I ended up in bed deathly sick, shivering, depressed all the way to hell and almost to the kitchen butcher knife. I sweated it, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep—shades down, I stared at the ceiling while being an inch from bottom. At the same time, the bathroom and kitchen sinks clogged up, and I vomited, trembling, into the toilet and it rained outside, and then some people came by with guitars and threw all the wine bottles, beer bottles, whiskey bottles in the trash, dumped the garbage. They made me laugh, they made me get off that stinking gloom bed. And I went out into the rain with them. Nothing to eat for 3 or 4 days—my stomach raw. And I ended up drunk again…

Now I seem to have pulled together (I hope), and it seems to be going easier as each day goes by. I suppose it was a transition from the 12 year thing, and when you look at it, maybe ten days shot going from one to the other isn’t too bad, what? Christ, I even give poetry readings now. [^***]

See Charles Olson Reading at Berkeley, a transcript of the reading discussed here, made by Zoe Brown and published by Coyote, San Francisco, 1966.

[To Carl Weissner]

February 16, 1970

[^***] Yes, I saw the transcript of the Olson reading in Berkeley. Frankly, man, it was sickening. He was begging to the audience, sitting in their laps like a baby. And his poems are so straight-laced. He broke out of his laces and slobbered all over everybody. He even begged people who were leaving to come back. Then a woman told him they had to close the auditorium at midnight, and he begged for a few minutes more, and then went on longer and longer. Something wrong with a man like that, sucking at the cunt of an audience. Thank god, I hate to read [^***].

What the hell you doing reading the Nola Express? Lively little rag, though, courage, but young young. The govt. will finally bust them in half. All these undergrounds have this suicide complex. I think they really want to get spanked by papa instead of replacing him. I could be wrong. But sometimes they swing those roundhouse glory rights, and miss, when the steady left jab might take the whole fight. [^***]

Dr. Renate Matthaei was editor for Verlag Kiepenheuer & Witsch, in Köln. The fake Henry Miller blurb invented by Weissner for the German edition of Notes of a Dirty Old Man and that Bukowski finds “quite accurate” reads as follows: “Each line in Bukowski is infected by the terror of the American nightmare. He articulates the fears & agonies of that vast minority in the no-man’s-land between inhuman brutalisation and helpless despair.”

The novel Post Office was eventually published in February 1971.

[To Carl Weissner]

February 23, 1970

[^***] glad you got hold of Dr. Matthaei, and I would prefer you to translate Post Office, of course. [^***] The money thing does become important when writing is your only income and you want to go on writing without diluting your style or missing too many meals. Also, the beer bill rises when you sit by the typer near the window and things begin to move in toward you from out there.

I want to thank you for some of your suggestions—you’ve been a great moral support. In looking over the contracts in the drawer I see I’ve signed quite a few. There is that tangled word horror where I sold away movie rights to these guys for $50 while I was drunk. I think I told you about that. 2 year option. I’ve got to sweat another year and 5 months. That’s on Notes. [^***]

I think you’ll like Post Office, maybe even better than Notes. There’s plenty of sex in there for laughs and enough horror and madness to float the typescript to you across the Atlantic. I try to photograph rather than preach. [^***]

I’m not too happy with the fake H[enry] M[iller] quote, and I would not tell Martin about it or he’d flip—maybe. But if you think it will make a difference in selling 2,000 or 5,000, go ahead. It’s best that we survive. By the way, I like the blurb itself. Quite accurate. So what the hell, go ahead. [^***]

[To John Martin]

February 23, 1970

I answered Weissner but I enclose his letter so you’ll get some idea of the German scene. I told him to go ahead with the Henry Miller blurb but not to tell you or you’d flip, and now here I am sending you the letter. So you must pretend not to read the H.M. blurb part. These Germans may save my ass yet. I do trust Weissner because he lays everything in the open, and is one of the better writers in Germany, and I think can do a better job of translating than anybody. Also met him personally, you know.

Now you lay off the beer, keep your feet on the ground, Sparrow. Remember what ol’ Franky D. said: “We have nothing to fear but fear itself.”

Neeli Cherkovski, then known as Neeli Cherry, was a poet and editor of Black Cat Review. He later was to write Bukowski’s biography, Hank.

[To Neeli Cherry]

[ca. April 12, 1970]

I figured they’d run you out of Germany fast enough. But you’re living without working and that is an acceptable state. I sit here by the window, drinking coffee and rolling cigarettes and watching the long-legged nurses stroll home. They check their mailboxes and quickly lock themselves into their plastic cubicles. Let them; they shit, have monthlies, fart, scream. There’s a new movement here now—The Women’s Liberation Movement—there are a lot of clever lesbians in it and some man-haters, and they have certain piteous points—like their breasts, but damn if I don’t think the ladies have rather ruled the cock-and-ball set right along. But they claim they are not represented with dignity—not enough female doctors, so forth, and then some guy says, there aren’t enough female garbage collectors, and then it goes around and around. Everybody everywhere is screaming for dignity and representation but their minds and souls are mud and shit, and how can you give dignity to shit? Guy over here other day said, “I think everybody who writes should have a guaranteed income.” Why just everybody who writes? I’d like to see most writers put into those ovens you were looking at. guaranteed. [^***]

[To Carl Weissner]

April 14, 1970

great, my friend. I’m glad one of the Melzers finally stirred into action. [^***]

sorry all this bitching and money talk shit, Carl. but it is part of the stew. but I felt all along that whether I got the advance from Meltzer or not would be the thing that made me or broke me. it’s just one of those things, Carl. once I get rolling here, learn how to better operate the ship, I feel I might go on, in spite of all. now that Meltzer is coming through the scene changes to one of hope. I mean hope of survival. there should be a way to get hold of my health, and the writing is coming along like a stampede—no dizzy spells there—wrote 35 new poems in the last 2 weeks. as good or better than any I have written. have also started a second novel, The Horseplayer. I am writing it in a more leisurely fashion than Post Office, which was quick-paced because I wanted it to be—because I didn’t want to preach, only tell. first 2 chapters on the Horseplayer all right; in fact, the first chapter is a classic. I even had to laugh myself. I may never finish the H.P. or I might. Not pressing it.

sometimes I get in here, writing, writing, lounging, in trancestate; a couple of days go by and I realize that I haven’t even been outside, and there I go—fresh air! sunshine! walking down the sidewalk, and then, friend, that first human face…[^***]

The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills was published on December 30, 1969.

[To John Martin]

[? March-April 1970]

[^***] I slipped off again, a week or so ago, but it was not nearly the agony trip that mid-January launch-out was. And each time I come back down, I am stronger again. These 2 good paintings today are an indication that the old Bukowski is coming back. Sardonic, easy—fucked-up but basically steering the wreckage. You won’t be able to laugh at me over the phone any more as my voice quavers. Hitler is back. Thank God and the angels and the collected works of Turgenev!

The nurses are coming in now and I look at their legs and their asses and I love them. I am back at the old window. [^***]

Yes, the Cal State thing. Felt shitty reading. I don’t like it. It is just a survival sort of thing that must be done. But the guy who set it up said he had never heard such a good crowd reaction since…anybody. Well good, so I was lucky. And I did have the Sparrow brochures which I walked around handing out laughing, saying, “Buy this, mothers…” If you have any ads left, ship me another bundle. Giving a small reading up at a rich dentist’s place, booze and broads, lambs turning on spits in the fire, all that shit. But I will keep them off my soul, which is mine and mine only, next Sunday, but if you have any ads I will jam it to them. I am worried that you might have published too many copies of Days and I want to help you hustle them off. Right on, right on…Hey, I see where they called out the National Guard to protect my archives at the Un. of Santa B[arbara]. Good stout lads all!

[To John Martin]

[? April 1970]

meant to get these off yesterday, but 2 young guys by, and so there went a whole afternoon. they didn’t like Henry Miller, they didn’t like Pound, they liked Celine. then one of them handed me one of his things. I didn’t like it.

so I’m coming in late with the work, but everything has its meaning. with these 2, I learned, mainly, there isn’t any competition. one of them claimed you had to have connections to get published. I said that 2 things helped—talent and talent, the connections would take care of themselves. when I was young and it came back I threw it away. everybody thinks they are a genius; that’s why they aren’t.

when they left, after drinking my beer, or as they left, I said, “I have Henry Miller’s address if you want to drop by there.”

“that’s an insult,” they said.

with these young guys it’s always a pleasure to cut down the giants but the best way to cut them down is with your own work and I don’t mean the work of your jaws. if Henry Miller had walked into the room, they would have shit and fawned all over him. the only reason they come to me is that I am the Image of the Loser, the Man who doesn’t care, the Man who didn’t quite make it, the man who will drink a beer with a bum. what they don’t realize is that I do care, would like to do my work, and have the kindness or the cowardice not to cuss them and send them on their way. unfortunately, people like something in me, they can’t let it go. I will simply have to work around it all and still do my work. my old theory while working ten to 12 hour nights and days in the factories and in the post office has always been, save what you can, don’t give in. the theory stands now; whether my work holds up depends upon what is left of me.

and so that’s kind of a bitch but that’s o.k. because I know when I am bitching I am all right. [^***]

[To Neeli Cherry]

May 10, 1970

little here. I am hanging on. just came off 2 weeks at the track, got way ahead, then gave it all back. I’ve made up my mind that I don’t know anything about horses.

action in U.S.: student strikes at universities. Nix moved into Cambodia. National Guard fired on students at Kent State. wounded many, killed 4. then at Univ. of New Mexico, where I’m supposed to read this Friday night, the National Guard bayonetted ten. Prob. later in month I’m going to read at 2 colleges in Washington. I’m not like you. I hate to read. but no money coming in right now. the bank account is sagging. [^***]

nurse pushing an old woman by in a wheelchair. it’s sad, sad. I’ll never get that old, something will kill me first. or maybe I’ll bury you, spit on your grave from my head of white hair, rotten Andernach teeth grinning in the sun, rolling a cigarette and farting.

before the horse bit, wrote 50 new poems in 3 weeks, most of them quite good, maybe not from your viewpoint but from mine. and that’s the one I go by. now I’ll be in all the littles again just when they thought they had buried me. Blazek’s gonna shit. there goes the old woman again. I’m running out of magazines to send to. even Evergreen took a poem; also lucked into Stony-brook—Creeley-land—with quite a number. there’s little doubt that getting out of the post office has given me more time and energy. it’s good, though it’s hard sometimes facing my own mind 24 hours on 24. a job keeps you from thinking. [^***]

p.s.—Martin going to publish novel. t...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Contents
• Editor's Note
• 1961
• 1962
• 1963
• 1964
• 1965
• 1966
• 1967
• 1968
• 1969
• 1970
• 1971
• 1972
• 1973
• 1974
• 1975
• 1976
• 1977
• 1978
• 1979
• Index of Principal Names
• Acknowledgments
• About the Authors
• By Charles Bukowski
• Copyright
• About the Publisher