"Чарльз Буковски. Дневник последних лет жизни (engl)" - читать интересную книгу автораintellectual thing. But I am suspect of the courage and motivations of many
of the professional anti-war protesters. From Gorky to this, what? Let the mind roll, who cares? Another good day at the track. Don't worry, I'm not winning all the money. I usually bet $10 or $20 to win or when it really looks good to me, I'll go $40. The racetracks further confuse the people. They have 2 fellows on tv before each race and they talk about who they think will win. They show a net loss on each meet. As do all the public handicapppers, tout sheets and race betting services. Even computers can't figure the nags matter how much info is fed into them. Any time you pay somebody to tell you what to do you are going to be a loser. And this includes your psychiatrist, your psychologist, your broker, your workshop teacher and your etc. There is nothing that teaches you more than regrouping after failure and moving on. Yet most people are stricken with fear. They fear failure so much that they fail. They are too conditioned, too used to being told what to do. It begins with the family, runs through school and goes into the business world. You see here, I have a couple of good days at the track and suddenly I know everything. There is a door open into the night and I am sitting here freezing but I won't get up and close the door because these words are running away with me and I like that too much to stop. But damn it, I will. I'll get up and close the door and take a piss. There, I did it. Both of those things. I even put on a sweater. Old about life. How holy can we get? And Christ, did you ever wonder how much piss a man pisses in a lifetime? How much he eats, shits? Tons. Horrible. It's best we die and get out of here, we are poisoning everything with what we expel. Damn the dancing girls, they do it too. No horses tomorrow. Tuesday is an off day. I think I'll go downstairs and sit with my wife, look at some dumb tv. I'm either at the track or at this machine. Maybe she's glad of it. Hope so. Well, here I go. I'm a good guy, you know? Down the stairs. It must be strange living with me. It's strange to me. Good night. 10/20/91 12:18 AM This is one of those nights where there is nothing. Imagine being always like this. Scooped-out. Listless. No light. No dance. Not even any disgust. This way, one doesn't even have the good sense to commit suicide. The thought doesn't occur. Get up. Scratch yourself. Drink some water. I feel like a mongrel dog in July, only it's October. Still, I've had a good year. Masses of pages sit it the bookcase behind me. Written since Jan. 18. It's like a madman was turned loose. No sane man would write that many pages. It's a sickness. This year has also been good because I've held back on visitors, more than ever before. I was tricked once though. Some man wrote me from London, |
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