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Journal d'un vieux dégueulasse by Charles…

Journal d'un vieux dégueulasse (original 1969; edition 1996)

by Charles Bukowski

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1,531137,056 (3.72)10
Title:Journal d'un vieux dégueulasse
Authors:Charles Bukowski
Info:Grasset (1996), Broché, 312 pages
Collections:Your library

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Notes of a Dirty Old Man by Charles Bukowski (1969)

Recently added by2kings10, eiamjw, clowningdog, fruittwist000, neurowrite, ibinu, tristamonahan, FabienZ, private library
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English (11)  Catalan (1)  French (1)  All languages (13)
Showing 1-5 of 11 (next | show all)
Just no ( )
  Heldin | Oct 15, 2017 |
Well, really, the title says it all! That, and this quote from Time on the front cover 'A laureate of American low life'. Yup, that's it!

Not every column in here is gold, but enough are that I really enjoyed myself! Bukowski just tells it like it is - with all the warts, puss, and nastiness therein. Sex with a man? Check. A 300 pound woman? Check. Taking a crap while two guys shave each other? Check mate! Sex, alcohol abuse, and lack of work lead to a transient life that is at both times hilarious, and terribly sad. And I enjoyed reading it. Hmm, what does that say about me? ( )
  Stahl-Ricco | Feb 18, 2017 |
The stories often run shorter than the usual short stories, reminiscences abound, and Bukowski even goes on rambling rants. To say there's no other Bukowski book like this is about half true discounting More Notes From A Dirty Old Man. As always, Bukowski's writing is mostly without fault save for infer/imply confusion here and the political rant coming off rather dated and actually surprisingly sterile for a dirty old man.

Bukowski wrote this stuff for a column of the same name in a paper, I think called Open City in L.A. An underground thing? It's interesting how long he stayed underground, because it was the same material that he always did. Kinda like how Miles Davis was just blowing the same sort of notes in 1955 as he blew in 1949 but all the sudden Columbia was knocking. It makes fame look like a rather fickle bitch, but that's the way it goes. Again I go back to Miller because it seems he wrote thousands of pages of shit before he got to Tropic Of Cancer, then he went straight back to writing thousands of pages of crap, only he published them. Again, Bukowski was pretty much good right from the get-go although he supposedly got stories rejected on a very regular basis before the poetry bug got to him.

I guess it interests me so much because one person could maintain it and the other one fell completely apart both before and after the lightning hit. Kinda like The Wachowskis before and after The Matrix. Some things I'll never understand. But hey, that's what it means to live and I don't knock it. ( )
1 vote Salmondaze | Oct 1, 2016 |
I really don't get what makes Bukowski so profound. Notes of a Dirty Old Man is the ramblings of a drunk and dirty gambler, always looking for his next drink or screw. Bukowski's writing is called Dirty Realism. That pretty much sums this particular book up. This book is a collection of little snippets of stories, based on Bukowski's life. He has no goals or aspirations. He barely works. The only thing he seems to have going for him is a large penis, but in my opinion, he's so dirty, smelly, and disgusting that I wouldn't touch it with my enemy's vagina, just so I could ask her how he was.

It turns out he produced a shit-load (an appropriate term) of work. Well, I am not sure I want to read much more of it. I feel like I could give any local homeless drunk in North Hollywood a typewriter and some paper and he would come up with similar stories. So maybe Bukowski is profound because he was the first to write in this kind of voice. Maybe, he is seen as an anti-hero or an outsider. That's just not enough for me. ( )
  RojaHorchata | Jul 11, 2016 |
More greatness ( )
  PaulRx04 | Apr 15, 2016 |
Showing 1-5 of 11 (next | show all)
I got into bed and read my own stories or whatever they were and I enjoyed them. Once I have written a poem and go back to it, I only get the sense of vomit and waste... But the stories, as I laid there in bed, I rather liked. Rotten thing to say, what? I do suppose it was the gathering of experience between covers ghostly which cuckolded me. Reading the life-days and nights of my life I wondered how I could possibly still be alive and walking around now?...

Re-reading them, stories and fantasies, I found them wondrous and flaming. I thought, Jesus, there hasn’t been a short storyteller this good since Pirandello. At least since then. It’s crappy to say, but I think that the book is worth reading. And that the unborn librarian virgins, 200 years hence, will come in their flowered panties, recognizing the power, after my damned dumb skull has become a chickenshit playground for subnormal worms, gophers, other underworld creatures.
added by SnootyBaronet | editOpen City, Charles Bukowski
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More than a year ago John Bryan began his underground paper OPEN CITY in the front room of a small two story house that he rented.
some son of a bitch had held out on the money, everybody claiming they were broke, card game finished, I was sitting there with my buddy Elf, Elf was screwed-up as a kid, all shriveled, he used to lay in bed for years squeezing these rubber balls, doing crazy exercises, and when he got out of bed one day he was as wide as he was tall, a muscled laughing brute who wanted to be a writer but he wrote too much like Thomas Wolfe and, outside of Dreiser, T. Wolfe was the worst American writer ever born, and I hit Elf behind the ear and the bottle fell off the table (he’d said something that I disagreed with) and as the Elf came up I had the bottle, good scotch, and I got him half on the jaw and part of the neck under there and he went down again, and I felt on top of my game, I was a student of Dostoevski and listened to Mahler in the dark, and I had time to drink from the bottle, set it down, fake with a right and lend him the left just below the belt and he fell against the dresser, clumsily, the mirror broke, it made sounds like a movie, flashed and crinkled and then Elf landed one high on my forehead and I fell back across a chair and the thing flattened like straw, cheap furniture, and then I was in deep — I had small hands and no real taste for fighting and I hadn’t put him away — and he came on in like some zany two-bit vengeful individual, and I got in about one for three, not very good ones, but he wouldn’t quit and the furniture was breaking everywhere, very much noise and I kept hoping somebody would stop the damned thing — the landlady, the police, God, anybody, but it went on and on and on, and then I didn’t remember.
never mix pills with whiskey. man, they weren’t kidding.
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Amazon.com Product Description (ISBN 0872860744, Paperback)

"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. . ."

(retrieved from Amazon Thu, 12 Mar 2015 18:24:38 -0400)

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