Free PDF The Pleasures of the Damned: Poems, 1951-1993, by Charles Bukowski
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The Pleasures of the Damned: Poems, 1951-1993, by Charles Bukowski
Free PDF The Pleasures of the Damned: Poems, 1951-1993, by Charles Bukowski
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- Sales Rank: #3124415 in Books
- Published on: 2007
- Binding: Hardcover
- 557 pages
Most helpful customer reviews
0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
Freaking amazing! I'm not going to get all flowery and ...
By Lou Ann Stowell
Freaking amazing! I'm not going to get all flowery and sentimental because Bukowski I don't think would have appreciated it or thought it too trite expressing the elite-est "cuteness".
Bukowski wasn't cute or pretty in his writing...he wrote what he saw around him with an awake and aware in-the-moment presence that is reality. Reality is not pretty or kind. I love his writing for that.
Also I found the words to his dead love in the poems "for Jane: with all the Love I had, Which Was Not Enough:", "Notice", and "for Jane" more touching than anything I have read in a long time. The grief he felt was enormous, world wrecking and I identified with that grief since I lost my husband and soul mate two years ago. I cried on the evening train reading these poems and found myself saying aloud "He KNEW!"
No one that has lost such an integral part of themselves is able to express that sort of gut wrenching of a tribute without having truly loved and suffered greatly.
He made me laugh, think, gasp at the rawness of life I remember seeing living in the outskirts of San Francisco in the 70's. He took down a memory lane of my own childhood and re-examine myself in a way I haven't in a very, very long time.
I never met you, Chuck, but I feel like I knew you, I would buy you a drink at the races if I could. Thank you for being so brutishly honest and more clean in your observations about the world than 80% of the population.
Bukowski clean? Oh, yeah.
He stripped down things to what they actually are instead of what society likes to pretend them to be. That to me is a clean, healthy lungful of fresh air! He was vulgar in his language, but in case you haven't really stepped out of your cubicle or hide-y hole...the world IS vulgar, uncivilized and mean and a vast majority of us in the lower classes (which is damn near anyone under a million anymore) lives with that. We're your elderly on the pensions and social security, waitresses, garbage men, retail sales people, and secretaries. You know, the ones the upper classes can't live without because we are the professional maids and nannies and buttwipers making minimum wage to slightly over, but still in the poverty level that make their world go round. We see the unsanitized and unedited truth. Mother Nature is one cruel mother. Bukowski had the balls to say it!
Thank you again for your humanity and insight.
0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
Great Book!
By Joe F
This is an excellent compilation of Mr. Bukowski's poems and stories. You'll enjoy this one! It arrived quickly, and it was in much better shape than was stated- it was like new- and it was a nice price, too.
30 of 33 people found the following review helpful.
"I Have Been Alone But Seldom Lonely"
By Foster Corbin
THE PLEASURES OF THE DAMNED is a collection of Charles Bukowski's poems, 548 pages of them, many of them from earlier volumes of poetry, some of them never before published. For anyone familiar with Bukowski, there are few if any surprises here, rather a healthy sampling of this iconoclast's poetry. So very autobiographical, many of these poems are about the things Bukowski loved: the races, cats (you can learn from them), booze, poetry (he calls himself a poetry junkie), Wagner, sex (like Mahler, you do not rush it), some women. He can write a paean to a lover in "The Shower" but then say in another poem that American women, as opposed to Japanese women, "will kill you like they tear a lampshade." He is not reticent in writing about people and things he hates as well: some writers, especially Hemingway, whom he describes as "just a drunk"-- the irony is that in "a clean, well-lighted place," his description of Hemingway's use of his literary reputation to reel women in "one at a time" sounds like Bukowski himself-- critics, mindless work. (He pictures workers trapped in jobs that go nowhere as having "goldfish security.)
Nothing was immune from Bukowski's pen. Apparently he could write about any subject. There are poems here on the killing of elephants in Vietnam, a grammar school bully remembered, the ignorance of youth, a trip to the doctor, picturing himself in a nursing home, a conversation with death, an old car ("a poor man's miracle"), the abuse that both he and his mother suffered at the hands of his father (his mother had "the saddest smile I ever knew"), the homeless, the old, poor, sick and dying, throwing a radio out a window, etc., etc.
No one would say that Bukowski wrote "pretty" poems. On the other hand, we cannot deny that many of them go straight to the bone. In "eating my senior citizen's dinner at the Sizzler" (what a horrendous image) markers in modern cemeteries are "flat on the ground, it's much more pleasant for passing traffic." His world is inhabited by a sixty-five-year-old man with cancer who kills his sixty-six-year-old wife who has Alzheimer's and then kills himself and a house that is sad because it is inhabited with people who have mindless, dead-end jobs. For many of the people Bukowski writes about, "it's a lonely world/of frightened people,/just as it has always/been." On the other hand, in the poem entitled "mind and heart" (p. 523), he acknowledges that we are all alone, "forever alone" but goes on to say that "I have been alone but seldom lonely."
Reading Bukowski reminds you of Walt Whitman and Allen Ginsberg--although he certainly is not derivative of any other writer-- but a case can be made that he is a lot closer in his mood and world view to some of the darker poems of both Robert Frost and Emily Dickinson than he probably would have acknowledged. There is a place in the parade of poets for anyone who speaks the truth: the Robert Frosts, the Emily Dickinsons, the Donald Halls, the Edwin Arlington Robinsons along with the Charles Bukowskis.
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