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

I was given a tetanus shot, a prescription for some antibiotics and
some Benadryl.
We drove off to an all-night Sav-on to get the stuff.
The 500 mg Duricef was to be taken one capsule every 12 hours. The
Benadryl one every 4 to 6 hours.
I began. And this is the point. After a day or so I felt similar as I
had to the time I had been taking antibiotics for TB. Only then, due to my
weakened state, I was barely able to walk up and down the stairway, having
to pull myself along by the banister. Now it was just the nauseous feeling,
the dullness of mind. About the 3rd day I sat down in front of this computer
to see if anything would come out of it. I only sat there. This must be, I
thought, the way it feels when it finally leaves you. And there is nothing
you can do. At the age of 72 it was always possible that it would leave me.
The ability to write. It was a fear. And it was not about fame. Or about
money. It was about me. I release of writing. The safety of writing. All
that mattered was the next line. And if the next line wouldn't come, I was
dead, even though, technically, I was living.
I have been off the antibiotics now for 24 hours but I still feel dull,
a bit ill. The writing here lacks spark and gamble. Too bad, kid.
Now, tomorrow, I must see my regular doctor to find out if I need more
antibiotics or what. The welts are still there, though smaller. Who knows
what the hell?
Oh yes, the nice lady at the receptionist's desk, just as I was
leaving, began talking about spider bites. "Yes, there was this fellow in
his twenties. He got bit by a spider, now he's paralyzed from the waist up."
"Is that so?" I asked.
"Yes," she said, "and there was another case. This fellow..."
"Never mind," I told her, "we have to leave."
"Well," she said, "have a nice night."
"You too," I said.

11/6/82 12:08 AM
I feel poisoned tonight, pissed-on, used, worn to the nub. It's not
entirely old age but it might have something to do with it. I think that the
crowd, that crowd. Humanity which has always been difficult for me, that all
repeat performance for them. There's no freshness in them. Not even the
tiniest miracle. They just grind on and over me. If, one day, I could just
see ONE person doing or saying something unusual it would help me get on
with it. But the are stale, grimy. There's no lift. Eyes, ears, legs, voices
but... nothing. They congeal within themselves, kid themselves along,
pretending to be alive.
It was better when I was young. I was still looking. I prowled the
streets of night looking, looking... mixing, fighting, searching... I found
nothing. I never really found a friend. With women, there was hope with each
new one but that was in the beginning. Even early on, I got it, I stopped
looking for the Dream Girl, I just wanted one that wasn't a nightmare.
With people, all I found were the living who were now dead -- in books,
in classical music. But that helped, for a while. But there were only so
many lively and magical book, then in stopped. Classial musics was my
stronghold. I heard most of it on the radio, still do. And I am ever