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

Чарльз Буковски.


Дневник последних лет жизни
(engl)
(был издан отдельной книгой)

Charles Bukowski.


The captain is out to lunch and the sailors have taken over the ship


8/28/91 11:28 PM
Good day at the track, damn near swept the card.
Yet it gets boring out there, even when you're winning. It's the minute
wait between races, your life leaking out into space. The people look gray
out there, walked through. And I'm there with them. But where else could I
go? An Art Museum? Imagine staying home all day and playing at writer? I
could wear a little scarf. I remember this poet who used to come by on the
bum. Buttons off his shirt, puke on his pants, hair in eyes, shoelaces
undone, but he had this long scarf which he kept very clean. That signaled
he was a poet. His writing? Well, forget it...
Came in, swam in the pool, then went to the spa. My soul is in danger.
Always has been.
Was sitting on the couch with Linda, the good dark night descending,
when there was a knock on the door. Linda got it.
"Better come here, Hank..."
I walked to the door, barefooted, in my robe. A young blond guy, a
young fat girl and a medium sized girl.
"They want your autograph..."
"I don't see people," I told them.
"We just want your autograph," said the blond guy, "then we promise
never to come back."
Then he started giggling, and holding his head. The girls just stared.
"But none of you have a pen or even a piece of paper I said.
"Oh," said the blond kid, taking his hands from his head, "We'll come
back again with a book! Myabe at a more proper time..."
Tha bathrobe. The bare feet. Maybe the kid thought i was eccentric.
Maybe I was.
"Don't come in the morning," I told them.
I saw them begin to walk off and I closed the door...
Now I'm up here writing about them. You've got to be a little hard with
them or they'll swarm you. I've had some horrible expreriences blocking that
door. So many of them think that somehow you'll invite them in and drink
with them all night. I prefer to drink alone. A writer owes nothing except
to his writing. He owes nothing to the reader except the availability of the
printed page. And worse, many of the doorknockers are not even readers.
They've just heard something. The reader and the best human is the one who
rewards me with his or her absence.