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

cornered at the bar by a young guy with very round eyes who never blinked. I
don't know what he was on. Or off. Quite a few people like that about. The
young guy had 3 rather nice looking ladies with him and he kept telling me
how they liked to suck cock. The ladies just smiled and said, "Oh, yes!" And
the whole conversation went on like that. On and on like that. I kept trying
to figure out whether it was true or whether I was being put on. But after a
while I just got weary of it. But the young guy just kept pressing me,
talking on about how the girls liked to suck cock. His face kept getting
closer and he kept on and on. Finally, I reached out and grabbed him by his
shirt front, hard, and held like that and I said, "Listen, it wouldn't look
good if a 71-year- old guy beat the shit out of you in front of all these
people, would it?" Then I let go of him. He walked around the other end of
bar, followed by his ladies. Damned if I could make any sense out of it.
I guess I'm too used to sitting in a small room and making words do a
few things. I see enough of humanity at the racetracks, the supermarkets,
gas stations, freeways, cafes, etc. This can't be helped. But I feel like
kicking myself in the ass when I go to gatherings, even if the drinks are
free. It never works for me. I've got enough clay to play with. People empty
me. I have to get away to refill. I'm what's best for me, sitting here
slouched, smoking a beedie and watching this creen flash the words. Seldom
do you meet a rare or interesting person. It's more than galling, it's a
fucking constant shock. It's making a god-damned grouch out of me. Anybody
can be a god-damned grouch and most are. Help!
I just need a good night's sleep. But first, never a damned thing to
read. After you've read a certain amount of decent literature, there just
isn't any more. We have to write it ourselves. There's no juice in the air.
But I expect to wake up in the morning. And the morning I don't, fine. I
won't need any more window screeens, razor blades, Racing Forms or message-
taking machines. The phone rings mostly for my wife, anyhow. The Bells do
not Toll for Me.
Sleep, sleep. I sleep on my stomach. Old habit. I've lived with too
many crazy women. Got to protect the privates. Too bad that young guy didn't
challenge me. I was in a mood to kick ass. Would have cheered me up
immensely. Good night.

9/25/91 12:28 AM
Hot stupid night, the cats are miserable, caught in all that fur, they
look at me and I can't do anything. Linda off to a couple of places. She
needs things to do, people to talk to. It's all right with me but she tends
to drink and must drive home. I'm not good company, talking is not my idea
of anything at all. I don't want to exchange ideas -- or souls. I'm just a
block of stone unto myself. I want to stay within that block, unmolested. It
was that way from the beginning. I resisted my parents, then I resisted
school, then I resisted becoming a decent citizen. It's like whatever I was,
was there from the beginning. I didn't want anybody tinkering with that. I
still don't.
I think that people who keep notebooks and jot down their thougts are
jerk-offs. I am only doing this because somebody suggested I do it, so you
see, I'm not even an original jerk- off. But this somehow makes it easier. I
just let it roll. Like a hot turd down a hill.