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

You see, I need the horses, I lose my sense of humor. One thing death
can't stand is for you to laugh at it. Trues laughter knocks the logest odds
right on thir ass. I haven't laughed for 3 or 4 weeks. Something is eating
me alive. I scratch myself, twist, look about, trying to find it. The Hunter
is clever. Your can't see him. Or her.
This computer must go back into the shop. Won't bless you with the
details. Some day I will know more about computers than the computers
themselves. But right now this machine has me by the balls.
There are two editors I know who take great offense at computers. I
have these two letters and they rail against the computer. I was very
surprised about the bitterness in the letters. And the childishness. I am
aware that the computer can't do the writing for me. If it could, I wouldn't
want it. They both just went on too long. The inference being that the
computer wasn't good for the soul. Well, few things are. But I'm for
convenience, if I can write twice as much and the quality remains the same,
then I prefer the computer. Writing is when I fly, writing is when I start
fires. Writing is when I take death out of my left pocket, throw him against
the wall and catch him as he bounces back.
These guys think you always have to be on the cross and bleeding in
order to have soul. They want you half mad, dribbling down your shirt front.
I've had enough of the cross, my tak is full of that. If I can stay off the
cross, I still have plenty to run on. Too much. Let them get on the cross,
I'll congratulate them. But pain doesn't create writing, a writer does.
Anyway, back into the shop with this and when these two editors see my
work typewritten again they'll think, ah, Bukowski has his soul back. This
stuff reads much better.
Ah, well, what would we do without our editors. Or better yet, what
would they do without us?

9/13/91 5:25 PM
The track is closed. There is no inter-track wagering with Pomona,
damned if I'm going to make that damned hot drive. I'll probably end up with
night racing at Los Alamitos. The computer is out of the shop once more but
it no longer corrects my spelling. I've hacked at this machine trying to dig
it out. Will probably have to phone the shop will ask the fellow, "What do I
do now?" And he will say something like, "You have to transfer it from your
main disk to your hard disk." I'll probably end up erasing everything. The
typewriter sits behind me and says, "Look, I'm still here."
There are night when this room is the only place want to be. Yet I get
up here and I'm an empty husk. I know I could raise hell and dance words on
this screen if I got drunk but I have to pick up Linda's sister at the
airport tomorrow afternoon. She's coming for a visit. She's changed her name
from Robin to Jharra. As women get older, they change their names. Many do,
I mean. Suppose a man did that? Can you see me phoning somebody:
"Hey, Mike, this is Tulip."
"Who?"
"Tulip. Formerly Charles, but now Tulip. I will no longer answer to
Charles."
"Fuck you, Tulip."
Mike hangs up...