کتاب هزار پیشه

اثر چارلز بوکوفسکی از انتشارات نگاه - مترجم: علی امیر ریاحی-بهترین رمان ها

این رمان سرگردانی‌های نویسنده‌ای مشتاق به نام هنری چیناسکی را در دوران جنگ جهانی دوم دنبال می‌کند. او که از خدمت نظام ‌وظیفه معاف شده، از شهری به شهر دیگر سفر می‌کند و از یک شغل نامانوس به شغلی دیگر روی می‌آورد، با آن که همیشه جیبش خالی است و به پول نیاز دارد، اما هیچ‌گاه برای مدتی طولانی یک جا نمی‌ماند، و با نوش‌خواری و دلبستگی‌های بی‌پایان به زنانی رقت‌انگیز و اقامت در اتاق‌های کثیف محقرانه گذران عمر می کند و هر چه بیش‌تر در انحطاطی خودخواسته گرفتار می‌شود؛


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امید تنها چیزی است که آدمیزاد لازم دارد. امید که نباشد، آدم دلسرد می‌شود. یاد دوره‌ای افتادم که نیوارلئان بودم و چند هفته‌ی مدام، با روزی دو تا شکلات پنج سنتی سرمی‌کردم تا بتوانم با خیال راحت بنشینم به نوشتن. اما متاسفانه، گرسنگی کشیدن باعث اعتلای هنر نمی‌شود؛ سر راهش می‌شود. روح انسان تو شکمش ریشه دارد. آدم بعد از خوردن یک استیک شاهانه و نیم بطر ویسکی خیلی بهتر می‌تواند بنویسد تا بعد از خوردن یک شکلات پنج سنتی. این افسانه‌هایی که راجع به هنرمند آس و پاس به‌هم بافته‌اند کس‌شعر است. چندان طولی نمی‌کشد که هرکسی متوجه می‌شود که همه چیز کس‌شعر است و عقلش می‌آید سر جایش و شروع می‌کند به کلاه‌برداری و دغل‌بازی و کلک سوار کردن تا زیر پای نفر بغل‌دستی‌اش را خالی کند و ازش بیفتند جلو. من هم می‌توانم از لاشه‌ها و زندگی درب‌وداغون مردها و زن‌ها و بچه‌های عاجز و درمانده یک امپراطوری درست کنم و چنان بلایی سرشان بیاورم که جانشان از کون‌شان در‌آید - برداشت از متن


مانند دیگر آثار بوکوفسکی، کاراکتر اصلی این کتاب هم کسی نیست جز خودش، چیناسکی خان دوست‌داشتنی. بوکوفسکی بجز چندسالی در دهه پنجاه میلادی که در اداره پست کار می‌کرد، هیچ‌گاه شغل ثابتی نداشت و چون از نوشته‌هایش هم پول چندانی عایدش نمی‌شد، به شغل‌هایی مثل نظافت‌چی، ظرف‌شویی، کارگری، باربری و ... رو آرود که در این کتاب - که از عنوانش هم پیداست - بخشی از داستان آن روزهایش را روایت می‌کند، روایتی که با آوارگی، گرسنگی و می‌خوارگی توامان است. بارها حین خواندنش ذوق کردم و با صدای بلند خندیدم که نویسنده بدبختی‌هاش رو چه با خنده و بی‌خیالی بیان کرده. البته مگر می‌شود از چیناسکی توقع دیگه‌ای داشت؟ هی تو! اون پیکِ مِی رو رد کن بیاد


پی‌نوشت: دو ترجمه از کتاب موجود هست، یکی برگردان وازریک درساهاکیان که با دقت و وفاداری کامل و بدون هیچ سانسوری ترجمه و فایل پی‌دف‌اف ش توسط نویسنده منتشر شده و دیگری برگردان فاجعه و پر از حذفیات خانم نیلوفر داد. واقعیت بوکوفسکی را از آثاری که بصورت رسمی در ایران منتشر شده نمی‌شود شناخت، به هیچ عنوان. نه عرف جامعه ظرفیتش را دارد و نه می‌تواند از زیر تیغ سانسور عبور کند. این ترجمه مستثنی از این امر است و از جهت برای مخاطب فارسی‌زبان بسیار ارزشمند و درخور توجه

لینک دانلود هزارپیشه - ترجمه وازریک درساهاکیان (دارای مجوز نشر اشتراکی از مترجم)

مشاهده لینک اصلی
هنوز قلم خام تری داره نسبت به بوکوفسکیِ هالیوود یا عامه‌پسند.
نسبت به اون‌ها کمتر برام جذابیت داشت
اولین باری بود که کتابی از بوکوفسکی بدون سانسور می خوندم. توش صحنه‌های جنسی و کثیف‌کاری زیاد داشت و می‌تونست واقعن حال و تصور آدم رو بهم بزنه و بوکوفسکی با دقت خوبی همه رو شرح داده بود :))
مثلن مامور پست داستان مشخصی نداشت و خاطرات‌اش رو تعریف می‌کرد.

مشاهده لینک اصلی
I have a sort of pre-emptive dislike-verging-on-loathing of Bukowski, which I think is rooted in my post-adolescent rejection of and disillusionment with the Beat writers (whom I absolutely adored in high school). I’ve never read Bukowski before, but I’ve seen Barfly and Factotum on the screen. I’ve seen two documentaries about him which likewise left me more disgusted and depressed than anything. This is where I’m coming from. There’s also this song that aided in informing me about the man.

One of my poet friends in high school once told me that he only would read Bukowski while taking a shit. This has stuck with me over the years. Once, a girl I became involved with praised Bukowski while simultaneously giving me a caveat about what a terrible sexist he was. This is where I’m coming from.

I started reading this one on the shitter after a long day’s work. Then I moved to the couch where I drank alcohol and chain-smoked cigarettes while zooming through the book. I sneered at the blunt simplicity of the sentences at first, feeling the intense distance between this kind of writing and the George Saunder’s stories I’d been reading recently, as well as the generally more stylistically interesting and intellectually potent books I tend to gravitate towards. But I still felt entertained by this stuff, nonetheless. As more Tesco brand scotch intersected with my veins, I began to see slightly more nuance to this rather thematically repetitive first-person, clearly auto-bio stuff that Bukowski had written about a drunk-as-shit-nihilist/struggling writer who clearly is himself. Very little imagination seemed to be at work here. Just the spilt guts of a self-aggrandizing louse. But yet, I continued to be entertained, so I pressed on, feeling each sentence flow by without much effort on my part. Following the narrative of being employed many, many times, failing and getting fired just as many, drinking, drinking, drinking (to a sickening degree), and barnacle-ing to the hulls of a series of horrendously-depicted females. That’s about all there is to this novel. Working, Drinking, Fucking. Rinse, repeat.

“Even the most horrible human being on earth deserves to wipe his ass.”

But amidst the misspelled words (“he lighted his cigarette”) and dumb-assed factual errors (the USA fighting China in WWII) I gradually found some remarkably “human” moments speckled within the details. There’s a potent dissatisfaction with the exploitative nature of American Capitalism to be found within the job-after-fucking-job experiences the narrator tumbles through. There’s something weirdly edifying in witnessing the details of a severe drunk’s day-to-day physical ailments and triumphs and tribulations, even when nauseating, like most of them are. Even the contemptible attitudes displayed toward women have an oddly true ring to them. This is NOT to say that I agree with treating women like shit the way Bukowski clearly does, but that his shittiness is a stark reminder of certain horrible realities that do certainly exist in the minds of many men. And this I found interesting, in an historico-anthropological sort of way, while simultaneously depressing and upsetting.

And then I thought of Raymond Carver. He also was once a real-life drunk of epic proportions who wrote in tight, blunt, staccato, matter-of-fact sentence-lumps, consistently describing soul-crushing work-weeks, oceans of booze and cluttered ashtrays. Why do I like his writing so much and yet feel this strong, largely pre-emptive aversion to Bukowski? That’s the question. Carvers prose-style is really no more innovative or poetic than Chuck’s, but yet when I read two of Carver’s collections I encountered them with such a different attitude and happy reception. Carver, for one, doesn’t denigrate women the way Bukowski does. That’s one thing. And while he speaks of little else beyond sad, failed, alcoholic people, he manages to make it seem far less about him--the almighty, misanthropic author--and more about said sad, failed, alcoholic people. There’s an extremely off-putting narcissism to Bukowski, so far as I can tell from reading a single book of his, which Carver elegantly transcends, despite similar style and content.

But then I wonder, is there more buried deep within the the wine-soaked walls of Bukowski than lets on immediately? Or, do I perhaps harbor some of the same misanthropy that he nakedly exposes one word to the next? Am I really any better? Well, my answer to the first query is still @[email protected] and my response to the second still @[email protected] but contemplating these things during my read was enriching in some way, so I reluctantly give some credit there to ol CB.

But what was Bukowski, really? A terminally depressed, ego-maniac/self-hater with a bottle permanently pressed to his lips. Some part of me can resonate with this, as much as I high-falutin-ly know that this is the case. There’s a dark knot of nihilism stuck inside my heart, I know this. Perhaps reading these rather bleak and repetitive exploits of Bukowski’s tingles some part of that in me that seeks connection and recognition. I do not know for sure.

مشاهده لینک اصلی
people like talking shit about charles bukowski on goodreads, it seems funny.

i liked this book a lot. henry chinaski is an asshole but he knows hes an asshole and simply accepts being an asshole. everything seems detached and transient, nothing really matters to him, life is just this @thing that is [email protected] which he feels powerless to, so he doesnt invest much emotion in the things he feels like he needs to do to stay alive, and drinks to avoid feelings of alienation. i laughed out loud several times, alone.

this is the first bukowski novel ive read. i understand how people could claim that hes misogynistic, but it seems more to me like he is someone who is extremely detached from people in general, but also enjoys the experience of sex. when he talks about women in an @overly [email protected] way, they are usually women he doesnt know. in my experience, i usually objectify/have enhanced biases towards strangers of any kind -- or like, when i see a man i dont know who im intensely attracted to, i usually focus strongly on his physical characteristics because its impossible to do anything else without knowing someone. bukowski seems to objectify women in a way that is not offensive, it just strikes me as what people who dont interact with a lot of people do, because people are always at a distance. he objectifies everything, kind of.

i empathized with him a lot. if he were alive and someone it made sense for me to know, i would probably have intense feelings for him and we would have sex but he wouldnt be able to fall in love with me because he was too self-involved/depressed, or hed see that i care too much or something. still, reading this made me feel less alone.

i recommend this book to people who are depressed, introverted, maybe have had problems with alcohol, disenchanted with people/society in general, dont like lengthy descriptions/cliches/@language masturbation,@ and are able to view life with a detached, sarcastic eye.

مشاهده لینک اصلی
There were times while reading this short novel that I had to stop and wonder if my aspiration to one day be the female Bukowski is either setting my sights too high or placing the bar too low.

And then I up and went to a bar, since I was reading this on the anniversary of the Dirtiest Old Man in Literatures passing and all, so I stopped worrying about pretty much everything. YOURE STILL MY BOY, BUK.

مشاهده لینک اصلی
fac·to·tum
/fakˈtōdəm/
noun
An employee who does all kinds of work.

Welcome Henry Chinaski, Bukowskis ever sarcastic, cynical, alcoholic and perpetually unemployed alter-ego. Its the 1940s, Chinaski had been rejected by the World War II drafts on account of his mental health, and hes searching for a job. A job that would serve him nicely and wont come in between him and his true love: writing.
“How in the hell could a man enjoy being awakened at 8:30 a.m. by an alarm clock, leap out of bed, dress, force-feed, shit, piss, brush teeth and hair, and fight traffic to get to a place where essentially you made lots of money for somebody else and were asked to be grateful for the opportunity to do so?”

Chinaski works one menial job after another and gets thrown out of most, except the ones he leaves on his own (hence, factotum). He constantly writes short-stories to Clay Gladmore, whose New York magazine @[email protected] he admired. As it happens, all of them come back with a rejection slip.



“Nothing is worse than to finish a good shit, then reach over and find the toilet paper container empty. Even the most horrible human being on earth deserves to wipe his ass.”


As with most Chinaski stories, we end up finding love over drinks at a bar....

@Baby,” I said, “I’m a genius but nobody knows it but me.”
She looked down at me. “Get up off the floor you damn fool and get me a drink. @


....or over a hamburger and beer....

@She was strange; she was always hot in the morning with her hangovers. I was not so hot in the mornings with mine. I was a night man. But at night she was always screaming and throwing things at me: telephones, telephone books, bottles, glasses (full and empty), radios, purses, guitars, ashtrays, dictionaries, broken watch bands, alarm clocks…She was an unusual [email protected]


....only to lose it all.

“I hate it when he fucks me,” Jan had said. She was now probably saying the same thing about me to him.


In the end, we just get a full-on Bukowski moment at a strip-joint, as we prepare to go out in a blaze of unemployed, poverty-stricken, alcoholic frenzy, but....

@And I couldn’t get it [email protected]


Loved this book, from start to finish.



مشاهده لینک اصلی
Having read two of Bukowskis books now, Ive decided hes for two types of people: psuedo-intelectual masochists that want to slum a little and more genuine people that live very histrionic if arrogant and introverted lives. I can’t get over how conceited Bukowski is, how conceited his books and intentions are, or the way he treats his audience. I guess he’s sort of a modern day Oscar Wilde or Elephant Man, but reading his books gives me the impression that most people that read him think the jokes on the other readers, that the jokes not on them, that they’re “with it.” That’s a little too much macho bullshit headgames for me. I like his honesty and he’s usually a quick read, though often repetitive and some of his more ludicrous fantasy escapades are off putting. Usually I don’t like books by writers about writing, but he usually handles it well (when does he have time to write?). Knowing some Joes like him, I wish they took their minds of the bottle and did something productive like write it all down. I’ll read some more of him, but I usually like my machismo with a little more humility, like John Wayne (that’s a joke).

مشاهده لینک اصلی
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