Charles Bukowski examines cats and his childhood in You Get So Alone at Times, a book of poetry that reveals his tender side. He delves into his youth to analyze its repercussions.
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13 | (1) |
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14 | (3) |
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17 | (2) |
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19 | (2) |
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beasts bounding through time- |
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21 | (2) |
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23 | (1) |
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24 | (2) |
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26 | (1) |
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my non-ambitious ambition |
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27 | (2) |
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29 | (3) |
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32 | (4) |
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36 | (2) |
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38 | (2) |
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that's why funerals are so sad |
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40 | (2) |
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42 | (2) |
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44 | (2) |
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46 | (2) |
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48 | (3) |
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51 | (2) |
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53 | (2) |
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55 | (2) |
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57 | (2) |
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the man in the brown suit |
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59 | (3) |
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62 | (3) |
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well, that's just the way it is |
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65 | (1) |
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66 | (4) |
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70 | (3) |
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my friend, the parking lot attendant |
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73 | (2) |
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75 | (1) |
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76 | (2) |
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my first affair with that older woman |
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78 | (2) |
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80 | (3) |
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83 | (2) |
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p.o. box 11946, Fresno, Calif. 93776 |
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85 | (2) |
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87 | (2) |
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for my ivy league friends: |
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89 | (2) |
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91 | (1) |
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bad times at the 3rd and Vermont hotel |
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92 | (2) |
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94 | (2) |
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96 | (3) |
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99 | (2) |
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101 | (2) |
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103 | (1) |
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104 | (1) |
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105 | (2) |
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107 | (2) |
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109 | (3) |
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112 | (1) |
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113 | (5) |
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118 | (2) |
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120 | (2) |
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122 | (1) |
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123 | (1) |
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124 | (1) |
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125 | (1) |
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126 | (2) |
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128 | (3) |
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131 | (2) |
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133 | (2) |
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135 | (2) |
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137 | (2) |
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friends within the darkness |
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139 | (2) |
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death sat on my knee and cracked with laughter |
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141 | (3) |
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144 | (1) |
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145 | (2) |
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the passing of a great one |
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147 | (2) |
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149 | (2) |
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151 | (1) |
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152 | (1) |
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153 | (2) |
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155 | (2) |
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157 | (7) |
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164 | (3) |
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167 | (4) |
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171 | (4) |
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175 | (2) |
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I thought the stuff tasted worse than usual |
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177 | (2) |
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179 | (2) |
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181 | (2) |
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183 | (3) |
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186 | (3) |
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189 | (6) |
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relentless as the tarantula |
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195 | (2) |
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197 | (2) |
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199 | (2) |
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201 | (5) |
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206 | (2) |
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the beautiful lady editor |
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208 | (3) |
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211 | (1) |
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212 | (4) |
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216 | (2) |
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218 | (3) |
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221 | (2) |
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223 | (2) |
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225 | (2) |
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227 | (2) |
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229 | (2) |
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231 | (2) |
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233 | (1) |
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234 | (1) |
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235 | (1) |
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236 | (1) |
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a cat is a cat is a cat is a cat |
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237 | (2) |
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239 | (1) |
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240 | (1) |
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241 | (6) |
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247 | (2) |
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249 | (2) |
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251 | (2) |
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those girls we followed home |
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253 | (3) |
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256 | (2) |
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258 | (2) |
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260 | (6) |
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266 | (2) |
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from an old dog in his cups |
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268 | (2) |
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270 | (2) |
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272 | (2) |
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the death of a splendid neighborhood |
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274 | (3) |
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you get so alone at times that it just makes sense |
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277 | (2) |
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279 | (1) |
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280 | (1) |
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281 | (1) |
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282 | (2) |
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284 | (4) |
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someday I'm going to write a primer for crippled saints but meanwhile |
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288 | (2) |
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290 | (1) |
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291 | (2) |
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293 | (3) |
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296 | (2) |
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our laughter is muted by their agony |
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298 | (1) |
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299 | (2) |
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301 | (1) |
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302 | (1) |
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303 | (1) |
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304 | (2) |
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306 | (1) |
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307 | (5) |
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312 | |
Charles Bukowski is one of America's best-known contemporary writers of poetry and prose and, many would claim, its most influential and imitated poet. He was born in 1920 in Andernach, Germany, to an American soldier father and a German mother, and brought to the United States at the age of two. He was raised in Los Angeles and lived there for over fifty years. He died in San Pedro, California, on March 9, 1994, at the age of seventy-three, shortly after completing his last novel, Pulp.
Lisainfo e-raamatute kohta