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My mother always said that Bukowski was polish, every single time he came up in conversation. Any guy that writes a book where he has casual sex with twenty different mistresses is a polock. Unless he's Italian.
There's your evidence. Until someone can come up with a quote by him declaring that yes absolutely, posifuckingtively I was a sympathizer - in his own words, then I'd say they had no fucking chance in hell to discredit him."A couple of years back I happened to be reading an interview of a local poet in one of the papers and the poet asked his English prof, `What do you think of Bukowski?` And the prof answered him, `He's a fucking Nazi. He'd sell his mother out for a nickel.`
I don't know what causes all this crap but some of it must simply be envy, and that's worse than sad. I only wish my fellow scribblers had just a bit more class. [...] And if I were a Nazi I would be the first one to come out and say so."
- Reach For The Sun, p.70/71
Bukowski's widow, Linda, was unavailable for comment but is said to have been so outraged by Pleasants' accusations that shortly after the book was published she showed up at a signing and left Pleasants a two-word note saying, "Fuck you."
Pleasants will be pleased by that. If you read his latest chapbook on Rexroth, Bukowski and Patchen -published by Beat Scene- you'll know what I'm talking bout.
Elaborating on others is not my cup of chai; let him do the talking:I don't intend to read his latest chapbook, so maybe you could elaborate?
It's hugely embarrassing to think that the readers of somebody's prose would imagine that the place where they wrote it was in some way sacred. Eccles Street in Dublin is long gone...
Wow, Pleasants is out of his fucking mind.Elaborating on others is not my cup of chai; let him do the talking: