کتاب حکایت هایی از دیوانگی های روزمره

اثر چارلز بوکوفسکی از انتشارات اتفاق - مترجم: مهسا نظام آبادی-دهه 1980 میلادی

«تو به من مردی را نشان بده كه تنها زندگی می‌كند و آشپزخانه‌اش هميشه كثيف است، من به تو می‌گويم به احتمال ۵ از ۹ اين مرد بی‌نظير است.» «تو به من مردی را نشان بده كه تنها زندگی می‌كند و آشپزخانه‌اش هميشه تميز است، من به تو می‌گويم به احتمال ۸ از ۹ ويژگی‌های روانی اين مرد تهوع‌آور است.»؛

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He writes well, this much is obvious, but I really just didnt care about reading what felt like the same story over and over again.

I enjoyed his writerly voice, the tone of the prose, the attitude of it all, it was so dirty and real as you would expect of somebody influence so obviously by Ernest Hemingway but, and maybe it is because of these expectations that I didnt love it, I was expecting more, something to make me want to keep turning the pages, plot maybe? And if thats so then I guess I leave myself open to criticism for it.

It very quickly felt like something of a chore to read, which is a shame. I feel bad about it. Usually I am filled with vitriol and bile when a book makes me want to give up. I dont hesitate to criticise it, tear it apart, throw it away but here, in this case, I am just sad.

مشاهده لینک اصلی
Ufff.... este libro ha sido una pasada....
Bukowski puede golpearte, asquearte, emocionarte, deprimirte y hacerte reír , todo de una vez... ha de ser por eso que un escritor maldito...
Hay algunos relatos muy flojos.... pero hay otros que son notables...
Y uno en particular, que fue muy difícil de digerir...
la pedofilia es un tema complicadísimo para mí....y no puedo con él

مشاهده لینک اصلی
once upon a time, in a shitshack bookstore not unlike so many other shitshack bookstores, a life-long love was forged. employed at this store was a strapping young lad named chris. bright-eyed. bushy-tailed. boneheaded. and enamored with the wealth of books surrounding him. he was perplexed as where to even begin looking for the good stuff, and he’d often scour the place after business hours. labyrinthine shelves. stocked endcaps. free-standing or pop-up displays. a pile of books here and there some moron set down so he could scratch his ass. despite the countless volumes present, chris had hope. and why not, our friend was endowed with a 30% discount, and a penis often favorably compared to the neck of a brontosaurus.

the job itself was a rotten sham. a seasonal gig. it paid a few gracious cents more than the current minimum wage. a career path to absolutely nowhere. worse yet, he couldn’t seem to find anything that tickled his fancy while stalking about. until, one day, after a hectic holiday shopping spree, our stalwart hero was restoring normalcy to his store’s wares in the aftermath of the havoc perpetrated by the yuletime shoppers. the droves of mindless cretins had certainly kicked the store’s ass that day, in pursuit of their wise investments. chris had seen what they were buying while jockeying the register, generally weak shit. Jackie Collins. Clive Cussler. self-help and new age mumbo-jumbo. some presumably-lame shit called “Primary Colors” which was absolutely flying off the shelves that year. sales of voodoo spells and autoerotic asphyxiation were lagging, symptons of a relatviely strong economy. due to the general chaos, chris was left to rearrange to the demanding satisfaction of his taskmaster, todd. this nimrod wielded his pitiful authority like a broadsword. todd read fantasy books by the baker’s dozen. todd’s social skills were what you’d expect of leprous eunuch. todd always had some crusty, white deposits disgustingly accentuating the corners of his thin, weird lips. todd probably diddled himself in the office under the auspices of making the nightly deposit. some deposit. chris endured this chump’s whims in order to continue collecting his unimpressive wages, but that doesn’t mean he was happy. it might even be safe to say that chris was hella pissed off. but better pissed off than pissed on, or so he’d been told.

it’s impossible to pinpoint exactly what act of buffoonery caused the ensuing chance encounter to occur. this much is certain: chris was ‘facing’ one of the shelves sporting the works of authors with surnames beginning with “B”. part of this duty was restocking books on the shelf which had wandered off in the course of the day. books he’d collected canvassing the shop for shit laying around. books which had literally grown legs and gone for a stroll. or books which some clod had brought to the counter, realized they’d never jerk off to, and decided against actually purchasing it. either way, these fuckers weren’t going to put themselves back in alphabetical order. the books, that is. that’s what chris was being paid for. perhaps he was in the act of restoring a copy of Dandelion Wine to its rightful place after discovering it abandoned in the ‘sports’ section. or he could have been returning Don Quixote to its accepted spot in the literary chain of existence from its careless exile near the magazine racks. but a wise man with a dollar to wager might be best betting that poor chris was fucking something up. say foolishly trying to cram a movie-tie-in copy of Burrough’s Naked Lunch to the ‘fiction’ section. seems reasonable. not quite. store policy strictly mandated that at least one copy of each m.t.i. rightfully belonged on the crappy little ‘entertainment’ island, and chris was erroneously placing this where he felt it was best represented instead. whatever foolishness occurred, it was a blessing, in hindsight. it set into motion the forthcoming life-affirming infatuation.

not far from the scene on the numbskullery, having repaired the misappropriation of whichever volume, chris surveyed some of the nearby titles. one leaped out at his ignorant, adolescent ass, Tales of Ordinary Madness by Charles Bukowski. This sounded promising, chris thought. he knew a little something about madness, he was snapping mad this particular evening, hell, he was extraordinarily mad, and probably figured he could do with toning it down a notch, to plain, Ordinary Madness. already impressed, his initial reaction was confirmed by the cover photo. a grizzled, smoking pollack. solid. plus, a testimonial on the back by some crappy offbeat publisher (at this age chris knew this sort of company published all the significant material) affirming that “people seem to either love him or hate him.” The accolades went on to promise “tales of [Bukowski’s:] own life doings are as wild and weird as the very stories he writes…exceptional stories that come pounding out of his violent and depraved [email protected]. chris was immediately sold. he set this treasure aside, although removing this book now created a little wiggle room on the shelf. but nothing big enough to attempt fucking. chris moved on. upon completion of his menial responsibilities, he sauntered up to todd and made use of his employee discount (unfortunately, he couldn’t find a way to also utilize that appallingly-large appendage as well at the time).

over the next few days, chris repeatedly burst into juvenile hysterics over Bukowski’s crude wit. this shit was priceless. he cracked up with each mention of uncontrollable vomiting. chris exploded with glee at each knee-slapper concerning cocks. admired the disregard this badass had his for liver, the police, and his myriad whores. foul language and dirty thoughts, culminating in stories alternately ridiculous and astounding. but it would be insulting to say that the book only satisfied on these lowbrow levels, more importantly, chris had a thematic appreciation for this clever shit. the revelation in failure promoted by bukowski. haughty contempt for society and their phony and puerile pop culture. Buke’s obviously-unrecognized genius was apparent, as in many stories he toiled fruitlessly as some workaday goon, and chris was sadly comforted when this noble malcontent spoke of the futility of trying to stay sane in an already fucked-up world. sure, he still nearly pissed himself as Buke recounted episodes of scrubbing pigeon shit, miserable sexcapades, and uncontrollable puking, but this might have been the first book that actually spoke to chris as a person. a few stories here and there missed the mark, but chris reasoned he may simply be too young to associate with these, perhaps he’d have to live, and love, and spectacularly fail in order to fully appreciate the few stories which didn’t captivate. he reassured himself this was probably the case, his own lifestyle wasn’t to far removed from Buke’s, he’d come to that understanding some day. hell, chris figured if he could imagine his future-self putting anything to paper, it would probably look quite similar. he looked at the degenerate on the cover again; not a comforting thought.

as chris got older (one cannot claim he grew up) he eventually worked his way through almost everything he could locate by his depraved hero. save for the poetry. and full-length stories. this suited him just fine. he was never a fan of poetry to begin with. for some reason suspected Bukowski’s novels would blow, as his love of the stories was dictated by their brief, kick-in-the-nuts approach. besides, it seemed quite unlikely anyone could continue being that funny and asinine for over a hundred consecutive pages. chris still thought that this shit was hilarious, perhaps the printed panacea for a dismal day.

and now, a decrepit, old pollack himself, chris has to admit that he still likes the Bukester, albeit quite a bit less than he used to. of the 30+ stories within Tales of Ordinary Madness, chris really only thought that 10 of them were really A-list material during this recent reading. not only was this disturbing in that this count was down from 16 just a few years ago, but there wasn’t a single B-list or below that he’d come to appreciate in age. perhaps there really isn’t anything deeper in these stories; mayhap all they can serve as is a quick, shock-value fix to get you sniggering. sure, at times it’s a bit depresseing that some stories read as though buke is fighting with all his might to maintain the self-image he’s perpetuated all these years: some poor fool unable to adapt or simply to stubborn to grow up. it might be even more soul-destroying that chris, and quite possibly many of you, can still relate.

but, fuck it. this shit is still hilarious.

Personal favorites: The Great Zen Wedding, Goodbye Watson, My Stay in the Poet’s Cottage, Rape! Rape!, No Stockings, and The Blanket.

مشاهده لینک اصلی
@I walked around the block twice, passed 200 people and failed to see a human [email protected]

@This birth thing. And this death thing. Each one had its turn. We entered alone and we left alone. And most of us lived lonely and frightened and incomplete lives. An incomparable sadness descended up on me. Seeing all that life that must die. Seeing all that life that would first turn to hate, to dementia, to neuroses, to stupidity, to fear, to murder, to nothing - nothing in life and nothing in [email protected]

@Living was easy – all you had to do was let go. And have a little money. Let the other men fight the wars, let the other men go to [email protected]

@The human race had always disgusted me. Essentially, what made them disgusting was the family-relationship illness, which included marriage, exchange of power and aid, which like a sore, a leprosy, became then: your next door neighbor, your neighborhood, your district, your city, your country, your state, your nation…everybody grabbing each other’s assholes in the honeycomb of survival out of a fear-animalistic [email protected]

مشاهده لینک اصلی
Povestirile lui Bukowski nu-l mai au în prim-plan pe Chinaski, ci cu totul alte personaje, inclusiv pe unul... Bukowski, dar cu același tipic: băutură (anti-droguri!), femei, arta de a scrie, singurătate și dorința de a reuși (oriunde, chiar și la cursele de cai).
Este clar că Bukowski nu poate plăcea oricui, pentru că ascunde și multă mizerie, și singurătate, și misoginism, și duritate sau violență. Dar talentul său este neîndoielnic și veți ieși schimbați din această experiență.
În plus, nu e de citit pe plajă că nu știi când te trezești cu o erecție :D

مشاهده لینک اصلی
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