So, what else appeals to Bukowski fans? (1 Viewer)

[sgraham]

Beyond the obvious Beats? What else scratches the itch?

As far as poetry, so much of it out there seems so sunny and life-affirming which is fine I suppose sometimes but it's hard to find stuff that gets down into it like Bukowski. One person I have found was the late d.a. levy, a Cleveland poet who was harrassed by the man until he ate a gun barrel. Oddly I found him through a reference on Sonic Youth's "NYC Ghosts and Flowers" album. He was part of the zine/chapbook self-publishing scene and his writing is very Cleveland-centric, which is nice if a person knows nothing about Cleveland.

Bukowski is so tied up in L.A. in my mind that lots of novelists and movies featuring older LA scratch the same itch. Fante's "Ask the Dust" is an obvious cousin to Bukowski's work but I haven't found other Fante novels that really "brought it" like Ask the Dust. Lots of older Film Noir movies give me the same feelings, a lone (lonely) protagonist against the world moving through darkened bars and dirty streets.

Hubert Selby Jr.? Is he up to the same level? Anybody have any other suggestions?

 

[esart]

Personally, I like Miranda July.

 

[Mark Rogers]

Willie Vlautin is worth checking out, especially Lean on Pete.

Recently caught a documentary on Selby. Much more of a stand up guy than I imagined. Just bought his book, The Demon.

 

[bospress.net]

The Demon is a great, great book.

 

[hoochmonkey9]

anything by Selby, really. a stunning writer who's a stylist and has an incredible insight into the human condition. to find both in a writer is rare. I think he's on a level with Samuel Beckett.

 

[Mark Rogers]

I'm psyched - it will be my next read.

 

[Black Swan]

You may like this dvd, as well. It is excellent.

 

[Bruno Dante]

Too many to mention them all and a lot of the stuff will be known to many already. However a recent discovery who was somewhat reminiscent of Bukowski (and John Fante, with whom he shared a similar career - successful author who moved into screenplays before his works went out of print, only to have a recent resurgence) with a decidedly English twist, is the author Alexander Baron. I'd suggest starting with The Lowlife. Well worth checking out in my opinion.

 

[growing beard]

nice call on baron. his web site is a trip thats for sure. the first poem i bumped into hit home for me though. http://www.infotextmanuscripts.org/rain_poem.html

and i'm not sure the beats are so obvious. bukowski had some nice things to say about ginsberg but at the same time those guys were wanderers, careening abroad. bukowski wasn't a wanderer, I don't think, so that's a very different m.o. he's the only urban writer that i've ever found to be worth his weight in deforestation. for me nothing else scratches the itch which is why its amazing that bukowski put out so much stuff. maybe some day i'll get into baudelaire as well, i've heard good things, and i know he focused a lot on the nuance and the disgusting beauty and contradiction of city life. but i do get a lot out of reading other authors, scratching other itches. for the itch of exultation and exploration and universality, i still read whitman. crossing brooklyn ferry for example. for the itch of not letting society steal your history or your environs, i still read wordsworth. the prelude for example. maybe i have more itches than most so take that with as many grains of salt as suits you.

 

[frankD]

Waking From Drunkenness on a Spring Day 春日醉起言志
處世若大夢, Life in the World is but a big dream;
胡爲勞其生. I will not spoil it by any labour or care.
所以終日醉, So saying, I was drunk all the day,
頹然臥前楹. Lying helpless at the porch in front of my door.
覺來盼庭前, When I woke up, I blinked at the garden-lawn;
一鳥花間é³'. A lonely bird was singing amid the flowers.
借問此何時, I asked myself, had the day been wet or fine?
春風語流鶯. The Spring wind was telling the mango-bird.
感之欲嘆息, Moved by its song I soon began to sigh,
對酒還自傾. And as wine was there I filled my own cup.
浩歌待明月, Wildly singing I waited for the moon to rise;
曲盡已忘情. When my song was over, all my senses had gone

Li Po