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

co. wanted to shut it off. Forget what with. Maybe a shovel. Cops came.
Don't remember how it worked. Think she reached for something in her apron.
They shot and killed her. All right, all right, I'll pay the gas bill. I
worry about my novel. It's about a detective. But I keep getting him into
these almost impossible situations and then I have to work him out. I
sometimes think about how to get him out while I'm at the racetrack. And I
know that my editor- publisher is curious. Maybe he thinks the work isn't
literary. I say that anything I do is literary even if I try not to make it
literary. He should trust me by now. Well, if he doesn't want it, I'll
unload it elsewhere. It will sell as well as anything I've written, not
because it's better but because it's just as good and my crazy readers are
ready for it. Look, maybe a good night's sleep tonight and I'll wake up in
the morning without this fat lip. Can you imagine me leaning toward the
teller with this big lip and saying, "20 win on the 6 horse?" Sure. I know.
He wouldn't have even noticed. My wife asked me, "Didn't you always have
that?" Jesus Christ. Do you know that cats sleep 20 hours out of 24? No
wonder they look better than I.

8/28/92 12:40 AM
There are thousands of traps in life and most of us fall into many of
them. The idea though, is to stay out of as many of them as possible. Doing
so helps you remain as alive as you might until you die...
The letter arrived from the offices of one of the network television
stations. It was quite simple, stating that this fellow, let's call him Joe
Singer, wants to come by. To talk about certain possibilities. On page 1 of
the letter were stuck 2 one hundred dollar bills. On page 2 there was
another hundred. I was on the way to the racetrack. I found that the hundred
dollar bills peeled off of the pages nicely without damage. There was a
phone number. I decided to call Joe Singer that night after the races.
Which I did. Joe was casual, easy. The idea, he said, was to create a
series for tv based on a writer like myself. An old guy who was still
writing, drinking, playing the horses.
"Why don't we get together and talk about it?" he asked.
"You'll have to come here," I said, "at night."
"O.k.," he said, "when?"
"Night after next."
"Fine. You know who I want to get to play you?"
"Who?"
He mentioned an actor, let's call him Harry Dane. I always liked Harry
Dane.
"Great," I said, "and thanks for the 300."
"We wanted to get your attention."
"You did."
Well, the night came around and there was Joe Singer. He seemed
likeable enough, intelligent, easy. We drank and talked, about horses and
various things. Not much about the television series. Linda, my wife, was
with us.
"But tell us more about the series," she said.
"It's all right, Linda," I said, "we're just relaxing..."
I felt Joe Singer had more or less come by to see if I was crazy or