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

force or luck you might have engendered to come out clearly. It's all for
the best, really, and if this is how you lose your soul, I am all for it.
There have been some bad moments. I remember one night after typing a
good 4 hours or so, I felt I had had some astonishing luck when -- I hit
something or other -- there was a flash of blue light and the many pages of
writing vanished. I tried everything to get them back. They were simply
gone. Yes, I had it set on "Save-all," it still didn't matter. This had
happened at other times but not with so many pages. Let me tell you, it is
one hell of a hell of a horrible feeling when the pages vanish. Come think
of it now, I have lost 3 or 4 pages at other times on my novel. A whole
chapter. What I did then was simply rewrite the whole damn thing. When you
do this, you lose something, little highlights that don't return but you
gain something too because as you rewrite you skip some parts that didn't
quite please you and you add some parts that are better. So? Well, it's a
long night then. The birds are up. The wife and the cats think you've gone
mad.
I consulted some computer experts about the "blue flash" but none of
them could tell me anything. I've found out that most computer experts
aren't very expert. Confounding things happen that just aren't in the book.
Now that I know more about computers I think I know one thing that might
have brought the work back from the "blue flash"...
The worst night was when I sat down to the computer and it went
completely crazy, sending out bombs, weird loud sounds, moments of darkness,
deathly blackness, I worked and worked and worked but could do nothing. Then
I noticed what looked like liquid that had hardened on the screen and around
the slot near the "brain," the slot where you inserted the disks. One of my
cats had sprayed the machine. I had to take it down to the computer shop.
The mechanic was out and a salesman removed a portion of the "brain," a
yellow liquid splashed on his white shirt and he screamed "cat spray!" Poor
guy. Poor guy. Anyhow, I left the computer. Nothing in the warranty covered
cat spray. They had to take practically all the guts out of the "brain." It
ook them 8 days to fix it. During that time I went back to my typewriter. It
was like trying to break rock with my hands. I had to learn to type all over
again. I had to get good and drunk to get the flow. And again, it was one
night to write it and another night to straighten it out. But I was glad the
typer was there. We had been toghether over 5 decades and had some great
times. When I got the computer back it was with some sadness that I returned
the old typer to its place in the corner. But I went back to the computer
and the words flew like crazy birds. And there were no longer any blue
flashes and pages that vanished. Things were even better. That cat spraying
the machine fixed everything up. Only now, when I leave the computer I cover
it with a large each towel and close the door.
Yes, it's been my most productive year. Wine gets better if it's
properly aged.
I'm not in contest with anybody, have no thoughts about immortality,
don't give a damn about it. It's the ACTION while you're alive. The gate
springing open in the sunlight, the horses plunging through the light, all
the jocks, brave little devils in their bright silks, going for it, doing
it. The glory is in the motion and the dare. Death be damned. It's today and
today and today. Yes.