3.5 

Notes of a Dirty Old Man

By Charles Bukowski
Notes of a Dirty Old Man by Charles Bukowski digital book - Fable

Publisher Description

A compilation of Charles Bukowski's underground articles from his column "Notes of a Dirty Old Man" appears here in book form. Bukowski's reasoning for self-describing himself as a 'dirty old man' rings true in this book.

"People come to my door—too many of them really—and knock to tell me Notes of a Dirty Old Man turns them on. A bum off the road brings in a gypsy and his wife and we talk . . . . drink half the night. A long distance operator from Newburgh, N.Y. sends me money. She wants me to give up drinking beer and to eat well. I hear from a madman who calls himself 'King Arthur' and lives on Vine Street in Hollywood and wants to help me write my column. A doctor comes to my door: 'I read your column and think I can help you. I used to be a psychiatrist.' I send him away . . ."

"Bukowski writes like a latter-day Celine, a wise fool talking straight from the gut about the futility and beauty of life . . ." —Publishers Weekly

"These disjointed stories gives us a glimpse into the brilliant and highly disturbed mind of a man who will drink anything, hump anything and say anything without the slightest tinge of embarassment, shame or remorse. It's actually pretty hard not to like the guy after reading a few of these semi-ranting short stories." —Greg Davidson, curiculummag.com

Charles Bukowski was born in Andernach, Germany on August 16, 1920, the only child of an American soldier and a German mother. Bukowski published his first story when he was twenty-four and began writing poetry at the age of thirty-five. His first book of poetry was published in 1959; he went on to publish more than forty-five books of poetry and prose, including Pulp (Black Sparrow, 1994), Screams from the Balcony: Selected Letters 1960-1970 (1993), and The Last Night of the Earth Poems (1992). Other Bukowski books published by City Lights Publishers include More Notes of a Dirty Old Man, The Most Beautiful Woman in Town, Tales of Ordinary Madness, Portions from a Wine-Stained Notebook, and Absence of the Hero. He died of leukemia in San Pedro on March 9, 1994.


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Notes of a Dirty Old Man Reviews

3.5
“oops, all absurdism! aka dad got into the philosophy books again and won’t let anyone rest until he relays his existentialism PAM. had stronger notes than others, especially diving into bukowskis early life and his political rants, but overall a decent read to learn more about the guy and have an alright time! :3”
“Originally published in 1969, Notes of a Dirty Old Man is a collection of underground newspaper columns written by Charles Bukowski. Written in a raw, conversational, and unapologetic style, the stories feature his semi-autobiographical alter ego, Henry "Hank" Chinaski, navigating a gritty landscape of poverty, alcoholism, gambling, and turbulent relationships. Bukowski never pulled any punches. I've always appreciated that he never apologized for who he was, no matter how uncomfortable it made anybody. He sure lived life to the fullest!”
“I got tired of reading Bukowski sometime this week. The spit started to taste bad to me. It gave me mental vomit, that foul breath of alcohol and cigarettes ingrained in the skin of an animal that has given up washing itself. And it was strange to realize this. I always liked his writing, but I never truly liked the man behind it. Writing should flow unfiltered, without asking permission, without that almost irritating concern about sounding good. And that's what I always admired about him. The ease with which he didn't give a damn about who was reading him. The freedom to write as if he owed nothing to anyone. As if he already knew the kind of shit he was, and had no interest in disguising it. Art came first. There was comfort in that. In the poorly crafted metaphor. In the sentence that almost apologizes for existing, but doesn't. In that rawness that shocks, not out of necessity, but because it's too true to be polished. I felt like an intruder. It was as if I were reading pages that weren't meant for me. A stolen diary, forcibly opened. And perhaps that's what always captivated me, the feeling that there are thoughts that weren't meant to be read. But this week, I grew tired. Maybe because I insisted too much. Because I sought more from him than he wanted to give. And in the midst of all that, I realized we don't have that much in common. He writes as if bleeding out. I always tried to wipe away the blood before anyone saw it.”

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