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

Computer class was a kick for sore ballls. You pick it up inch by inch
and try to get the totality. The problem is that the books say one way and
some people say the other. The terminology slowly becomes understandable.
The computer only does, it doesn't know. You can confuse it and it can turn
on you. It's up to you to get along with it. Still, the computer can go
crazy and do odd and strange things. It catches viruses, gets shorts, bombs
out, etc. Somehow, tonight, I feel that the less said about the computer,
the better.
I wonder whatever happened to that crazy French reporter who
interviewed me in Paris so long ago? The one who drank whiskey the way most
men drink beer? And he got brighter and more interesting as the bottles
emptied. Probably dead. I used to drink 15 hours a day but it was mostly
beer and wine. I ought to be dead. I will be dead. Not bad, thinking about
that. I've had a weird and wooly existence, much of it awful, total
drudgery. But I think it was the way I rammed myself through the shit that
made the difference. Looking back now, I think I exhibited a certain amount
of cool and class no matter what was happening. I remember how the FBI guys
got pissed driving me along in that car. "HEY, THIS GUY'S PRETTY COOL!" one
of them yelled angrily. I hadn't asked what I had been picked up for or
where we were going. It just didn't matter to me. Just another slice out of
the senselessness of life. "NOW WAIT," I told them. "I'm scared." That
seemed to make them feel better. To me, they were like creatures from outer
space. We couldn't relate to each other. But it was strange. I felt nothing.
Well, it wasn't exactly strange to me, I mean it was strange in the ordinary
sense. I just saw hands and feet and heads. They had their minds made up
about something, it was up to them. I wasn't looking for justice and logic.
I never have. Maybe that's why I never wrote any social protest stuff. To
me, the whole structure would never make sense no matter what they did with
it. you really can't make something good out of something that isn't there.
Those guys wanted me to show fear, they were used to that. I was just
disgusted.
Now here I am going to a computer class. But it's all for the better,
to play with words, my only toy. Just musing there tonight. The classical
music on the radio is not too good. I think I'll shut down and go sit with
the wife and cats for a while. Never push, never force the word. Hell,
there's no contest and certainly very little competition. Very little.

10/14/91 12:47 PM
Of course, there are some strange types at the racetrack. There's one
fellow who's out there almost every day. He never seems to win a race. After
each race he screams in dismay about the horse that won. "IT'S A PIECE OF
SHIT!" he will scream. And then go on shouting about how the horse never
should have won. A good 5 minutes worth. Often the horse will read 5 to 2
and 3 to 1, 7 to 2. Now a horse like that must show something or the odds
would be much higher. But to this gentleman it just doesn't make sense. And
don't let him lose a photo finish. He really comes on with it then. "FUCK
THE GOD IN THE FACE! HE CAN'T DO THIS TO ME!" I have no idea why he isn't
barred from the track.
I asked another fellow once, "Listen, how does this guy make it?" I'd
seen him talking to him at times.