کتاب حکایت هایی از دیوانگی های روزمره

اثر چارلز بوکوفسکی از انتشارات اتفاق - مترجم: مهسا نظام آبادی-بهترین رمان ها

«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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Even though I am a big fan of Bukowskis novels I think his Strength was definitely in short stories and this collection has got everything you would come to expect from the master of low life literature, from the booze, women, cheap cigars and poetry reading to the drunken outbursts, lewd behaviour, betting on the horses and dead end jobs its all there, and if I could choose any drinking buddy dead or alive there is no contest (I can almost picture the scene now with me probably waking up in the gutter!), and with so many memorable lines one of my favourites was just simply,
@Vera,@ I said
@[email protected] She asked
@I am the worlds greatest poet,@ I told her
@living or [email protected] She asked
@dead,@ I said.

Classic Bukowski!




مشاهده لینک اصلی
Forse un genio , forse un barbone

Difficile a dirsi .
Di sicuro uno che scrive di se stesso e beve (sempre) troppo.
Una scrittura diretta , rude , sgrammaticata (o è la traduzione? boh!)
a volte @[email protected] , che riesce a farti respirare a fondo il tanfo dellalcool e dello squallore e dellemarginazione e della solitudine...
anche se non mancano sprazzi di poesia.
Il libro inizia con questo racconto:La piú bella donna della città

Cass era la piú giovane e la piú bella di 5 sorelle. Cass era la piú bella ragazza di tutta la città. Mezzindiana, aveva un corpo stranamente flessuoso, focoso era e come di serpe, con due occhi che proprio ci dicevano. Cass era fuoco fluido in movimento. Era come uno spirito incastrato in una forma che però non riusciva a contenerlo. I capelli neri e lunghi, i capelli di seta, si muovevano ondeggiando e vorticando come il corpo volteggiava. Lo spirito, o alle stelle o giú ai calcagni. Non cera via di mezzo, per Cass. Cera anche chi diceva chera pazza. Gli imbecilli lo dicevano.
Gli scemi non potevano capirla. Agli uomini in genere Cass pareva una macchina da fottere, e quindi non gliene fregava niente, fosse o non fosse pazza. E Cass ballava e civettava, si lasciava baciare dagli uomini, ma, tranne qualche rara volta, quando si stava per venire al dunque, comè come non è, Cass si eclissava, Cass aveva eluso gli uomini.
Le sorelle laccusavano di sprecare la sua bellezza, di non fare buon uso del cervello. Ma Cass ne aveva da vendere, di cervello e di spirito. Dipingeva, danzava, cantava, modellava la creta, e quando qualcuno era ferito, mortificato, nel corpo o nellanima, Cass provava compassione per costui.
Il suo cervello era, ecco, differente; la sua mentalità non era pratica, ecco quanto.


E poi ,tra cosce , sbronze , rabbie , amarezze e follie , trovi racconti come
@Sei [email protected] @Animali in libertà@ e infine @La [email protected] e...
Al Diavolo, vecchio pazzo di un Bukowski
allora forse non sei solo erezioni eiaculazioni ed esibizioni !?
Forse.

3 stelline e mezzo
sì, perchè mezza stellina lho proprio dovuta togliere,
per quella parola- orrenda - di 5 lettere che inizia per s e finisce per a
ripetuta ogni 3 per 2 :)

مشاهده لینک اصلی
I couldnt get into this book. I really liked Post Office but this one left me cold. I felt that the quality was patchy - a few of the stories I really liked, but some appeared to me to be dashed off at speed or written just to shock.

مشاهده لینک اصلی
Como antología de relatos, los hay mejores y los hay peores. Pero los buenos brillan mucho.

مشاهده لینک اصلی
Bukowski – the man, the myth, the legend.

I’ve been reading Bukowski’s works on and off for the past 25+ years, and I have yet to find it boring.

Tales of Ordinary Madness is a collection of 34 short stories, some fictional, some less so, and some downright out of his own, unique life.

Unlike his other, pseudo-autobiographical works, or his other short story collections, this one was harder to read than most. Not because of the subject matter – after 25 years I know what to expect from him – but because of the frequent lack of proper punctuation, capitalization, and discard for text readability. In essence, many of these stories appear as how they would have been written prior to a proper edit. (this could have been either an intentional choice, or true first drafts – either way, it does not matter to me enough to do the research) Although harder on the eyes, the style does not take away from the content.

In this collection, Bukowski delivers his usual subject matters in his usual style. The master of the lowlife short story form. And for that, I am grateful.

By contemporary standards, Bukowski would be a misogynist, a racist, a tramp, a drunk, and a generally unappealing person. However, the same standards would throw many other great writers under the bus, so to speak. And Bukowski was, undoubtedly, a great writer.

Sure, he was a drunk, and probably not a very nice person. Nevertheless, Bukowski dealt in raw emotions, raw settings, and he did not really give a flying f#@#k about what I, or anybody else think of him. He wrote because he had to (those nagging voices would not stop), and he wrote in an utmost honest way. And that, I can appreciate.

There were many other great writers, but none came even close when it came to honest, raw emotion – Kerouac was too polished, Miller too philosophical, and Hemingway . . . well.

The beauty in Bukowski’s writing lies in its simplicity. If something smells like shit, he writes that. If he is too drunk to get an erection, he writes that. If he manages to get laid, he writes that. And if he finds himself in jail on yet another drunk charge, he writes that, too. He is able to observe the world, make fun of it, and laugh at himself at the same time.

In an era where the radio pours forth the high-pitched voices of whiny, wimpy-sounding male singers; where the media promotes sensitive males, tough women, and gender-neutral bathrooms; where political correctness trumps everything else – Bukowski’s rough manliness is a breath of fresh air (even though he was not being a man - he just did not give a damn). [and judging by the rise of #MeToo the image of correctness, equality, and sensitivity is very much just an image] I would never want to be like him, however, I can appreciate his existence.

In a way, Bukowski’s writing shows what he always said – he hated people, society, ideals – he wanted to be left alone. He drank to escape his inner demons, to escape the world. He gave up on the world, and reemerged honest in a way many other writers could not.

Reading his works never fails to inspire me to create, which is perhaps the paradox in all of this.

مشاهده لینک اصلی
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