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

I read them and throw them away. These are the towering Nineties. There's
the next line. And the line after that. Until there are no more.
Yeah. One more cigarete. Then I think I'll take a bath and go to sleep.

4/16/92 12:39 AM
Bad day at the track. On the drive in, I always mull over which system
I am going to use. I must have 6 or 7. And I certainly picked the wrong one.
Still, I will never lose my ass and my mind at the track. I just don't bet
that much. Years of poverty have made me wary. Even my winning days are
hardly stupendous. Yet, I'd rather be right than wrong, especially when you
give up hours of your life. One can feel time actually being murdered out
there. Today, they were approaching the gate for the 2nd race. There were
still 3 minutes to go and the horses and riders were slowly approaching. For
some reason, ti seemed an agonizingly long time for me. When you're in your
70's it hurts more to have somebody pissing on your time. Of course, I know,
I had put myself into a position to be pissed upon.
I used to go to the night greyhound races in Arizona. Now, they knew
what they were doing there. Just turn your back to get a drink and there was
another race going off. No 30 minute waiting periods. Zip, zip, they ran
them one after the other. It was refreshing. The night air was cold and the
action was continuous. You didn't believe that somebody was trying to saw
off your balls between races. And after it was all over, you weren't worn
down. You could drink the remainder of the night and fight with your
girlfriend.
But at the horse races it's hell. I stay isolated. I don't talk to
anybody. That helps. Well, the mutuel clerks know me. I've got to go to the
windows, use my voice. Over the years, they get to know you. And most of
them are fairly decent people. I think that their years of dealing with
humanity has given them certain insights. For instance, they know that most
of the human race is one large piece of crap. Still, I also keep my distance
from the mutuel clerks. By keeping counsel with myself, I get an edge. I
could stay home and do this. I could lock the door and fiddle with paints or
something. But somehow, I've got to get out, and make sure that almost all
humanity is still a large piece of crap. As if they would change! Hey, baby,
I've got to be crazy. Yet there is something out there, I mean, I don't
think about dying out there, for example, you feel too stupid being out
there to be able to think. I've taken a notebook, thought, well, I'll write
a few things between races. Impossible. The air is flat and heavy, we are
all voluntary members of a concentration camp. When I get home, then I can
muse about dying. Just a little. Not too much. I don't worry about dying or
feel sorry about dying. It just seems like a lousy job. When? Next Wednesday
night? Or when I'm asleep? Or because of the next horrible hangover? Traffic
accident? It's a load, it's something that's got to be done. And I'm going
out without the God-belief. That'll be good, I can face it head on. It's
something you have to do like putting your shoes on in the morning. I think
I'm going to miss writing. Writing is better than drinking. And writing
while you're drinking, that's always made the walls dance. Maybe there's a
hell, what? All the poets will be there reading their works and I will have
to listen. I will be drowned in their peening vanity, their overflowing self-
esteem. If there is a hell, that will be my hell: poet after poet reading on