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

and on...
Anyway, a particularly bad day. This system that usually worked didn't
work. The gods shuffle the deck. Time is mutilated and you are a fool. But
time is made to be wasted. What are you going to do about it? You can't
always be roaring full steam. You stop and you go. You hit a high and then
you fall into a black pit. do you have a cat? Or cats? They sleep, baby.
They can sleep 2% hours a day and they look beautiful They know that there's
nothing to get excited about. The next meal. And a little something to kill
now and then. When I'm being torn by the forces, I just look at one or more
of my cats. There are 9 of them. I just look at one of them sleeping or half-
sleeping and I relax. Writing is also my cat. Writing lets me face it. It
chills me out. For a while anyhow. Then my wires get crossed and I have to
do it all over again. I can't understand writers who decide to stop writing.
How do they chill out?
Well, the track was dull and deathly out there today but here I am back
home and I'll be there tomorrow, most probably. How do I manage it?
Some of it is the power of routine, a power that holds most of us. A
place to go, a thing to do. We are trained from th beginning. Move out, get
into it. Maybe there's something interesting out there? What an ignorant
dream. It's like when I used to pick up women in bars. I'd think, maybe this
is the one. Another routine. Yet, even during the sex act, I'd think, this
is another routine. I'm doing what I'm supposed to do. I felt ridiculous but
I went ahead anyhow. What else could I do? Well, I should have crawled off
and said, "Look, baby, we are being very foolish here. We are just tools of
nature."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, baby, you ever watched two flies fucking or something like
that?"
"YOU'RE CRAZY! I'M GETTING OUT OF HERE!"
We can't examine ourselves too closely or we'll stop living, stop doing
everything. Like the wise men who just sit on a rock and don't move. I don't
know if that's so wise either. They discard the obvious but something makes
them discard it. In a sense, they are one-fly-fucking. There's no escape,
action or inaction. We just have to write ourselves off as a loss: any move
on the on the board leads to checkmate.
So, it was a bad day at the track today, I got a bad taste in the mouth
of my soul. But I'll go tomorrow. I'm afraid not to. Because when I get back
the words crawling across this computer screen really fascinate my weary
ass. I leave it so that I can come back to it. Of course, of course. That's
it. Isn't it?

6/26/92 12:34 AM
I have probably written more and better in the past 2 years than at any
time in my life. It's as if from over 5 decades of doing it, I might have
gotten close to really doing it. Yet, in the past 2 months I have begun to
feel a weariness. The weariness is mostly physical, yet it's also a touch
spiritual. It could be that I am ready to go into decline. It's a horrible
thought, of course, The ideal was to continue until the moment of my death,
not to fade away. In 1989 I overcame TB. This year it has been an eye
operation that has not as yet worked out. And a painful right let, ankle,