Johannes
Founding member
Hi, my name is Johannes, I am from Austria and a long time fan of smog.net and the general work of MJP, the mighty.
He mentioned it in the "favorite book of poetry"-thread, we had some sort of contact regarding Carl Weissner as translator and Bukowski in Germany. Don't know if this is really interesting for you, but here's my (of course limited) knowledge about it. And please excuse possible errors, it's not my first language.
Weissner went to San Francisco in `68 to study the english language. He got in contact with the Beats and the so called "Underground" and, after returning to Germany, started to translate Burroughs, Ginsberg, Bob Dylan, Frank Zappa and, of course, Bukowski, whom he'd met at his place at DeLongpre. (He wrote about that meeting in the foreword of the german version of: Poems Written Before Jumping Out Of An 8 Story Window)
The first pieces printed of Bukowski were poems in Anthologies called "Fuck You" and "ACID" around `69 or so. I don't remember exactly, but I think "Fuck You" was started by Weissner and "ACID" by Rolf Dieter Brinkmann, a then famous "pop-author" in germany. In 1970 "Aufzeichnungen eines Außenseiters", the german version of "Notes ..." gained some attention from the literary-critics, who thought to smell an incredible political input, but the the real breakthrough were "Der Mann mit der Ledertasche" (Post Office) and "Gedichte die einer schrieb bevor er im 8 Stockwerk aus dem Fenster sprang" ( Poems Written ...) in 1974.
Weissners Foreword of "Poems ..." did much to touch the masses and establish the so called "Bukowski-Myth" in Germany. It's called: The dirty old man of Los Angeles. The book is lying next to me. I won't (and can't) translate it word to word, but the story is: Weissner at the Los Angeles Airport in 1968, ready to meet the man. But nobody's there. Weissner get's nervous, because the man is "an alcoholic", "known for driving his car like hell", "tried sucide twice", and "wasn't the youngest anymore." He takes the bus to DeLongpre. Down the Wilshire Boulevard Weissner is asking himself, if he's still in the same town. DeLongpre is a slum, the smog is flimmering, the asphalt is cooking ... a cracked up Plymouth is rotting in front of a garbage-can full of beercans. Weissner realises, he has arrived. A sign on the front door: "Carl, don't knock, I'm probably drunk. Just smash the door, it's smashed already. Welcome in the United States, Buk." Weissner tries, the door is unlocked. Weissner is murmuring to himself: If somebody leaves his door unlocked in Los Angeles, he's gotta be crazy or "even drunk very quick".
Inside: Dark and dusty, cigarettes on the carpet, stinking socks in the corner, beer bottles everywhere. Car tires in the corner, too, photos of "sexual murders" and "reports of robberys and shootings" on the walls, mysterious-looking diagrams and formulas for "all the horse-races of Santa Ana, Santa Anita, Del Mar and Hollywood Park of the last 3 years". In front of the window an old Remington.
Than, a snarling voice behind him: "Amigo, you must be deaf or something" - There he is: Bukowski, passing Carl Weissner a beer and saying: "If I hadn't known, it would be you, I would have something else in my hand now. Sorry that I wasn't at the airport. Got smashed last night. Was in the studio of KPFK, they put a microphone in front of my face and I talked 'till I fell from the stool. They fed me reds'n'alcohol, a terrible mixture. Never try it! Just woke up and puked under the bed. Yech! Forget it ..."
Weissner sumarizes: "That's him, Charles Bukowski, son of german-polish parentage, born 1920 in Andernach at the Rhein, went to America at the age of 2, grew up in the slums of the Eastcoast, first jailed as juvenile-gang-member in Philadelphia, studied Journalism without finishing, refused to go into 2nd world war, was sent to nuthouses instead, later an neverending list of jobs: (... here's the ultimate end of my vocabulary, sorry, I'm trying to describe)
Bukowski worked as
- the guy who's washing the dead bodies at a funeral before they get buried (?!),
- the guy who fills cars with gas at a gas station (?!)
- Advertisment-texter for a "noble-whorehouse" in New Orleans
- the guy who carries furniture up and down the stairs when someone is moving
- Nightporter
- in a slaughterhouse
- sportsreporter
- Garbageman (?)
- pimp
- on a port/haven (?)
- pear-picker (?)
- railroad-worker
- and, of course, as postal clerk.
Bukowski's talking about his life: the alcohol, the brawlings, the stomach ulcer of `55, his women, "the fucked up face, the fucked up life." How he has started at 35 with poems and the littles (Webbs "Outsider" gets mentioned), that he's no "goddamned lyrical entertainer" ... that Webb had money-problems last year and he (Bukowski) talked Henry Miller (!) into giving Webb some manuscripts which helped "the old Webb" out ... that this image of a "slum-god" and "Humphrey Bogart of the gutters of Los Angeles" is pissing him of ... that all he wants is his horse running properly, some bars "giving him credit", and "a big whore who won't talk to much" but gets him some proper steaks on the table ... etc.
Weissner closes with OPEN CITY and his columns, saying they are, as his poems, "autobiographical stories of a man who knows, that he's living on the edge, every sentence could be his last, but the tone keeps cool, relaxed, concentrated ...
But, nonetheless, everytime Weissner is crossing Andernach, he's thinking, that Bukowski catched it better with Los Angeles.
... to be continued
He mentioned it in the "favorite book of poetry"-thread, we had some sort of contact regarding Carl Weissner as translator and Bukowski in Germany. Don't know if this is really interesting for you, but here's my (of course limited) knowledge about it. And please excuse possible errors, it's not my first language.
Weissner went to San Francisco in `68 to study the english language. He got in contact with the Beats and the so called "Underground" and, after returning to Germany, started to translate Burroughs, Ginsberg, Bob Dylan, Frank Zappa and, of course, Bukowski, whom he'd met at his place at DeLongpre. (He wrote about that meeting in the foreword of the german version of: Poems Written Before Jumping Out Of An 8 Story Window)
The first pieces printed of Bukowski were poems in Anthologies called "Fuck You" and "ACID" around `69 or so. I don't remember exactly, but I think "Fuck You" was started by Weissner and "ACID" by Rolf Dieter Brinkmann, a then famous "pop-author" in germany. In 1970 "Aufzeichnungen eines Außenseiters", the german version of "Notes ..." gained some attention from the literary-critics, who thought to smell an incredible political input, but the the real breakthrough were "Der Mann mit der Ledertasche" (Post Office) and "Gedichte die einer schrieb bevor er im 8 Stockwerk aus dem Fenster sprang" ( Poems Written ...) in 1974.
Weissners Foreword of "Poems ..." did much to touch the masses and establish the so called "Bukowski-Myth" in Germany. It's called: The dirty old man of Los Angeles. The book is lying next to me. I won't (and can't) translate it word to word, but the story is: Weissner at the Los Angeles Airport in 1968, ready to meet the man. But nobody's there. Weissner get's nervous, because the man is "an alcoholic", "known for driving his car like hell", "tried sucide twice", and "wasn't the youngest anymore." He takes the bus to DeLongpre. Down the Wilshire Boulevard Weissner is asking himself, if he's still in the same town. DeLongpre is a slum, the smog is flimmering, the asphalt is cooking ... a cracked up Plymouth is rotting in front of a garbage-can full of beercans. Weissner realises, he has arrived. A sign on the front door: "Carl, don't knock, I'm probably drunk. Just smash the door, it's smashed already. Welcome in the United States, Buk." Weissner tries, the door is unlocked. Weissner is murmuring to himself: If somebody leaves his door unlocked in Los Angeles, he's gotta be crazy or "even drunk very quick".
Inside: Dark and dusty, cigarettes on the carpet, stinking socks in the corner, beer bottles everywhere. Car tires in the corner, too, photos of "sexual murders" and "reports of robberys and shootings" on the walls, mysterious-looking diagrams and formulas for "all the horse-races of Santa Ana, Santa Anita, Del Mar and Hollywood Park of the last 3 years". In front of the window an old Remington.
Than, a snarling voice behind him: "Amigo, you must be deaf or something" - There he is: Bukowski, passing Carl Weissner a beer and saying: "If I hadn't known, it would be you, I would have something else in my hand now. Sorry that I wasn't at the airport. Got smashed last night. Was in the studio of KPFK, they put a microphone in front of my face and I talked 'till I fell from the stool. They fed me reds'n'alcohol, a terrible mixture. Never try it! Just woke up and puked under the bed. Yech! Forget it ..."
Weissner sumarizes: "That's him, Charles Bukowski, son of german-polish parentage, born 1920 in Andernach at the Rhein, went to America at the age of 2, grew up in the slums of the Eastcoast, first jailed as juvenile-gang-member in Philadelphia, studied Journalism without finishing, refused to go into 2nd world war, was sent to nuthouses instead, later an neverending list of jobs: (... here's the ultimate end of my vocabulary, sorry, I'm trying to describe)
Bukowski worked as
- the guy who's washing the dead bodies at a funeral before they get buried (?!),
- the guy who fills cars with gas at a gas station (?!)
- Advertisment-texter for a "noble-whorehouse" in New Orleans
- the guy who carries furniture up and down the stairs when someone is moving
- Nightporter
- in a slaughterhouse
- sportsreporter
- Garbageman (?)
- pimp
- on a port/haven (?)
- pear-picker (?)
- railroad-worker
- and, of course, as postal clerk.
Bukowski's talking about his life: the alcohol, the brawlings, the stomach ulcer of `55, his women, "the fucked up face, the fucked up life." How he has started at 35 with poems and the littles (Webbs "Outsider" gets mentioned), that he's no "goddamned lyrical entertainer" ... that Webb had money-problems last year and he (Bukowski) talked Henry Miller (!) into giving Webb some manuscripts which helped "the old Webb" out ... that this image of a "slum-god" and "Humphrey Bogart of the gutters of Los Angeles" is pissing him of ... that all he wants is his horse running properly, some bars "giving him credit", and "a big whore who won't talk to much" but gets him some proper steaks on the table ... etc.
Weissner closes with OPEN CITY and his columns, saying they are, as his poems, "autobiographical stories of a man who knows, that he's living on the edge, every sentence could be his last, but the tone keeps cool, relaxed, concentrated ...
But, nonetheless, everytime Weissner is crossing Andernach, he's thinking, that Bukowski catched it better with Los Angeles.
... to be continued
