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

12/9/91 1:18 AM
The tide ebbs. I sit and stare at a paper clip for 5 minutes.
Yesterday, coming in on the freeway, it was evening going into darkness.
There was a light fog. Christmas was coming like a harpoon. Suddenly I
noticed that I was driving almost alone. Then in the road I saw a large
bumper attached to a piece of grill. I avoided it in time, then looked to my
right. There was a pile-up of cars, 4 or 5 cars but there was silence, no
movement, nobody around, no fire, no smoke, no headlights. I was going too
fast to see if there were people in the cars. Then, at once, evening became
night. Sometimes there is no warning. Things occur in seconds. Everything
changes. You're alive. You're dead. And things move on.
We are paper thin. We exist on luck amid the percentages, temporarily.
And that's the best part and the worse part, the temporal factor. And
there's nothing you can do about it. You can sit on top of a mountain and
meditate for decades and it's not going to alter. You can alter yourself
into acceptability but maybe that's wrong too. Maybe we think too much. Feel
more, think less.
All the cars in that pile-up seemed to be gray. Odd.
I like the way philosophers break down the concepts and theories which
have preceded them. It's been going on for centuries. No, that's not the
way, they say. This is the way. It goes on and on and seems very sensible,
this onwardness. The main problem for the philosophers is that they must
humanize their language, make it more accessible, then the thoughts light up
better, are more intersting still. I think that they are learning this.
Simplicity is the key.
In writing you must slide along. The words can be crippled and choppy
but if they slide along then a certain delight lights up everything. Careful
writing is deathly writing. I think Sherwood Anderson was one of the best at
playing with words as if they were rocks, or bits of food to be eaten. He
PAINTED his words on paper. And they were so simple that you felt rushes of
light, doors openin, walls glistening. You could see rugs and shoes and
fingers. He had the words. Delightful. Yet, they were like bullets too. They
could take you right out. Sherwood Anderson knew something, he had the
instinct. Hemingway tried too hard. You could feel the had work in his
writing. They were hard blocks stuck together. And Anderson could laugh
while he was telling you something serious. Hemingway could never laugh.
Anybody who writes standing up at 6 a.m. in the morning has no sense of
humor. He wants to defeat something.
Tired tonight. Damn, I don't get enough sleep. I would love to sleep
until noon but with the first post at 12:30, add the drive and getting your
figures ready, I have to leave here about 11 a.m., before the mailman gets
here. And I'm seldom asleep until 2 a.m. or so. Get up a couple of times to
piss. One of the cats awakens me at 6 a.m. on the dot, morning after
morning, he's got to go out. Then too, the lonelyhearts like to phone before
10 a.m. I don't answer, the machine takes the message. I mean, my sleep is
broken. But if this is all I have to bitch about then I'm in grand shape.
No horses for the next 2 days. I won't be up until noon tomorrow and
I'l feel like a powerhouse, ten years younger. Hell, that's to laugh -- ten
years younger would make me 61, you call that a break? Let me cry, let me