"Чарльз Буковски. Дневник последних лет жизни (engl)" - читать интересную книгу автора

on? It's not right to keep going on. Hell, death is the gasoline in the tank
anyhow. We need it. I need it. You need it. We trash up the place if we stay
too long.
Strangest thing, I think, after people die is looking at their shoes.
That's the saddest thing. It's as if most of their personality remains in
their shoes. The clothes, no. It's in who has just died. You put their hat,
their gloves and their shoes on the bed and look at them and you'll go
crazy. Don't do it. Anyhow, now they know something that you don't. Maybe.
Last day of racing today. I played inter-track wagering, at Hollywood
Park, betting Fairplex Park. Bet all 13 races. Had a lucky day. Came out
totally refreshed and strong. Wasn't even bored out there today. Felt
jaunty, in touch. When you're up, it's great. You notice things. Like
driving back, you notice steering wheel on your car. The instrument panel.
You feel like you're in a goddamned space ship. You weave in and out of
traffic, neatly, not rudely -- working distances and speeds. Stupid stuff.
But not today. You're up and you stay up. How odd. But you don't fight it.
Because you know it won't last. Off day tomorrow. Oaktree Meet, Oct. 2. The
meets go around and around, thousands of horses running. As sensible as the
tides, a part of them.
Even caught the cop car tailing me on the Harbor freeway south. In
time. I slowed it to 60. Suddenly, he dropped way back. I held it at 60.
He'd almost clocked me at 75. They hate Acuras. I stayed at 60. For 5
minutes. He roared past me doing a good 90. Bye, bye friend. I hate getting
a ticket like anybody else. You have to keep using the rear view mirror.
It's simple. But you're bound to get tagged finally. And when you do, be
glad you're not drunk or packing drugs. If you're not. Anyhow, the title's
in.
And now I'm up here with the Macintosh and there is a wonderous space
before me. Terrible music on the radio but you can't expect a 100 percent
day. If you get 51, you've won. Today was a 97.
I see where Mailer has written a huge new novel about the CIA and etc.
Norman is a professional writer. He asked my wife once, "Hank doesn't like
my writing, does he?" Norman, few writers like other writers' works. The
only time they like them is when they are dead or if they have been for a
long time. Writers only like to sniff their own turds. I am one of those. I
don't even like to talk to writers, look at them or worse, listen to them.
And the worst is to drink with them, they slobber all over themselves,
really look piteous, look like they are serching for the wing of the mother.
I'd rather think about death than about writers. Far more pleasant.
I'm going to turn this radio off. The composers also sometimes screw it
up. If I had to talk to somebody I think I'd much prefer a computer
repairman or a mortician. With or without drinking. Preferably with.

10/2/91 11:03 PM
Death comes to those who wait and to those who don't. Burning day
today, burning dumb day. Came out of the post office and my car wouldn't
kick over. Well, I am a decent citizen. I belong to the Auto Club. So, I
needed a telephone. Forty years ago telephones were everywhere. Telephones
and clocks. You could always look somewhere and see what time it was. No
more. No more free time. And public telephones are vanishing.