* * *
[To Ann Bauman]
Late November, 1962
[* * *] Kafka, unlike your Henry James, was not ordinarily intelligent and discerning. Kafka was a god damned petty clerk who lived a good damned [sic] petty life and wrote about it, the dream of it, the madness of it. There is one novel where a man enters this house, this establishment, and it appears that from the viewpoint of others that he is guilty of something but he does not know what. He is shuffled from room to room, endlessly, to the rattle of papers and bureaucracy, a silent simmering horrible living dream of ordinary mad and pressing, senseless everyday life. Most of his books are on this order: the shadow, the dream, the stupidity. Then there are other things—where a man turns into a bridge and lets people walk across him. Then there is another where a man gradually turns into a giant cockroach (“The Metamorphosis”) and his sister feeds him as he hides under the bed. Others, others. Kafka is everything.
Forget Henry James. James is a light mist of silk. Kafka is what we all know. [* * *]
* * *
[To Jon and Louise Webb]
November 30, 1962
[* * *] Yes, disgusting the rent they charge of a dive in the business districts of anywhere, and the landlord doesn’t have to do anything but sit back and take it in while you hope to make it—somehow. Hang on, you’re getting an award too, somewhere, somehow; this is lit. history like Poetry when Ez was European editor and full of beans, or even like Mencken’s Mercury; or Dial; but you are essentially the new center and the part of this age, only people never realize the blood sweat weariness disgust breakdown & trial of soul that goes into it; and the puking little criticisms of milk-white jackasses. [* * *]
* * *
Federman was coeditor of Mica, the last issue of which appeared in November 1962. Bukowski’s story, “Murder,” was published not in Mica but in Notes from Underground, no. 1 (1964). Dorbin records no earlier story in Mica, although one was published in Canto (Los Angeles), winter 1961.
[To Raymond Federman]
December 6, 1962
Rec. your O.K. on “The Murder.” I write very few short stories—you’ve taken the only 2 I have written in years. Both of them were very close to a type of personal experience and feeling that just did not seem to fit into the shorter poem-form.
You might call “The Murder” a prose-poem as I have worked with the poem so long that when I do try the story-form I still feel as if I were laying down the poem-line.
It might interest you to know that over drinks and in conversational lulls with the few odd people that get in here I have told the story of “The Murder,” first telling them what made me write it, what was happening to me at the time, and how I took this and made it into a story—or whatever it is.
Their comment at the finish was usually, “Jesus Christ!,” which I took more as a criticism than a vindication.
* * *
[To Ann Bauman]
[Tuesday] December 18, 1962
Terrible happenings. Got drunk Sunday night and thrown in jail. Must see judge on Wednesday. Fell and twisted ankle—swollen now, might be broken. Missed 2 days work. Judge might give me 120 days. This is not first offense. Will mean loss of job, of course.
Have been laying here in horrible fit of depression. My drinking days are over. This is too much. Jail is a horrible place. I almost go mad there.
I don’t know what is going to become of me. I have no trade, no future. Sick, depressed, blackly, heavily depressed.
Write me something. Maybe a word from you will save me.
[To Jon Webb]
[December 19, 1962]
I lucked it. Easy judge. Nobody got a day all the time I was in court, but all fined. A good 40 or 50 appeared ahead of me. Jail might be full. Christmas. Whatever. [* * *]
Don’t be angry, Jon, but there are very few editors holding my recent stuff, so I can’t write them. And the other stuff, the older stuff has disappeared and I don’t keep records and/or carbons so it’s pretty much lost. I’ve dropped 200-to-300 poems this way since 1955, and I used to try to get some of these poems back, the larger batches of 20 or 40 that I remembered anyhow, but I have found that the elongated keepers of poems or destroyers of poems WITHOUT EXCEPTION do not respond to polite and reasonable inquiry with proper stamped self-addressed envelope enclosed. There is a mucky dismal breed out there…unmoral, immoral unscrupulous…homos, hounds, sadists; curious, blank children; blood-drinkers…
And then some people wonder why I write an occasional anti-editor poem. You and Gypsy are a pair of the few editors I know who operate in a professional and straight manner, and the gods have been more than good to me in that you have seen some light in some of my work and are handing me this OUTSIDER OF YEAR shining tray of honor, plus the book.
* * *
[To Jon and Louise Webb]
[December 21, 1962?]
Got to thinking about the telephone call the other night, and how you weren’t going to mention this or that, and well, I think pretty slowly, but I hope now, thinking it over, that you aren’t going to make a white rabbit outa me. I’ve got nothing to hide. Feel free. It’s a person’s eccentricities that give him whatever he has. Don’t be too cautious with excerpts from letters, except I agree with you that mentioning a name directly (false initials will do) might be bad taste, especially if that person has very little literary standing. If he has literary standing, use the name and the hell with it. I hope this does not get to you too late. That I drink or play the ponies or have been in jail is of no shame to me.
As you can see, I have recovered from my depression [* * *]
[To Jon and Louise Webb]
December 27, 1962
Got your six page letter which I read through a couple of times while drinking a Miller’s, and the sun’s out good, but it’s cold & I have a heater on and the stove on, and somehow there’s a feeling of peace today—I feel like a fat man who ate a lot of turkey, and since this feeling does not arrive too often, I take it, I take of the good of it without examining it, without feeling selfish. That’s what’s good about being 42: you know when to go with what’s left of the soul. I spent Xmas in bed asleep. I hate to go out on the streets on Xmas day. The fuckers act like they are out of their minds. They strain at the thing; round-eyed and hacked-out they drive through red lights, they look at each other and say things but they don’t know what they’re saying: their mouths have long ago been cut out and thrown away. Christmas, to most of them, is like owning a new car. They’ve got to do it. They don’t have the guts—or the sense—to pass it up. Enough. Did I say I was feeling at peace? [* * *]
* * *
[To Jon Webb]
[December 28, 1962]
No, as to title, I don’t care for Naked in the Womb or the Alcatraz one. When I said you think up title, I was only thinking in terms of a summary title such as Selected Poems or etc. As to the other type of title, I don’t think it would be fair for you to submit titles any more than it would be fair for you to put one of your poems in there under my name. Surely, you understand this? I have been trying to think up a summary title, but if you want a straight title, I will send you a half dozen or so in a day or two. I’m glad this came up. Please do not use one of your titles that is not a summary title (such as Collected Poems, Selected Poems) as this would take the heart out of me. I will be strictly dreaming titles from here on in, say like Beer and Frogs Legs or I Can’t Stand the Sunshine When People Walk Around in It or For Jocks, Chambermaids, Thieves and Bassoon Players. I almost like the last one. It carries summation plus the rest. Yes. [* * *] or Tonic for the Mole. Meaning these type of poems for those who duck out to the world, ya know. or Minstrels Would Go Crazy Singing This.[* * *]
Know it cost you money to have your man work on photos but glad he perked up a couple. I cannot get over the nightmare of those photos, and maybe some day I can write about it, but it’s still too close. [* * *]
* * *
• 1963 •
The
title settled on is a phrase taken from a poem by Robinson Jeffers. Permission to use it had to be obtained from Random House.
[To Jon and Louise Webb]
January 2, 1963
christ, I’m glad you liked the title (It Catches My Heart in Its Hands), and yes I’m sending book (this piece “Such Counsel You Gave to Me”) to you [* * *], and no, I’m not going to change my mind, THAT’S IT, and so if you are going to or have set up an ad using title, fine. Also glad you and Louise have accepted dedication. I have been worried about both ends of this: title and dedication, and now all’s well. [* * *]
No, I don’t know how many copies of each of the 3 earlier books there were. Although I believe Cuscaden (Run With) mentioned 200, and I believe Longshots around 200 too. On Griffith (Flower, Fist), I don’t know, and also, he doesn’t answer his mail. [* * *]
Must say again, very glad you went for title and dedication. Yes, the title is in my head too. It says so god damned much. Jeffers, when he got good, he got very good. There were these long periods when he flattened out and had a tendency to preach his ideals of rock & hawk, but when he did get the word down…he got it down in a way, that to me, made our other contemporaries or newly deads seem not so much. [* * *]
p.s.—my photo on cover only another miracle on miracle that has been occurring. It does not seem too long ago that I was considering the blade. If I never write another decent poem it’s your fault, Jon. I’ve got my alibi ready.
* * *
[To Jon and Louise Webb]
January 6, 1963
[* * *] I am glad on Corrington for intro. He knows me—and my work—better than anyone, and he possesses the style and manner to do a patrical job. (I wanted to say “pat” but it looked like “pot,” so I changed it to patrical, whatever that means.) Anyhow, Corrington’s the only one, and his own writing is improving. His lines seem clearer and harder—he sent me a poem called Communion. It has a holy edge and fervor, quite good. Quite. [* * *]
Photo of Sandburg in This Week holding little girl on his knee and underneath poem about death. Death is hush, says the old boy. Well, I guess so. Only I wish he’d crop or comb that sickly flange of white hair that looks like a wig. If I EVER get that old, they’ll find me under the bed drunk
with the Racing Form AND
a big OLD girl. [* * *]
* * *
Roman Books, run by Jim Roman in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, published in 1963 a ground-breaking catalogue called “‘The Outsiders’: a collection of first editions by avant-garde and ‘beat’ generation authors of prose and poetry since World War Two.” Bukowski is giving his approval to Jon Webb’s sale of manuscripts to the dealer.
[To Jon and Louise Webb]
January 7, 1963
[* * *] On ROMAN BOOKS, I understand. In your position, why not? Someday when you are gone they will talk about the force and vitality of the Outsider in mid-20th century literature, and how you stood in front of that press feeding it your blood and your hours and your life. It will very very romantic then. But now? Shit, nobody ever cares about NOW. They are always looking back. They moon for the pain of Mozart or Lorca bulleted in the road. But there are always new Mozarts and Lorcas, new Poetry Chicagos, new Blasts, new Brooms, etc. If you can swing a buck from ROMAN for a few wilted manus in order to go on, hell, do it. YOU ARE LIVING NOW. If you have any manus you want me to sign, ship them here, I will sign and return. Ink is cheap. [* * *]
* * *
[To John William Corrington]
January 14, 1963
[* * *] my cock average size but mostly out of action lately, desire there still, but price too high, trouble too much, I do not search like a highschool boy, and some night finally it is there, or at a motel outside Del Mar track in August it is there, and then it is gone, the color of the dress I remember, some words spoken, but the act is really secondary, they have hung the cock on me, I have dipped, but really, the walls are large.
Born Andernach, Germany August 16th, 1920. German mother, father with American Army (Pasadena born but of German parentage) of Occupation. There is some evidence that I was born, or at least conceived out of wedlock, but I am not sure. American at age of 2. Some year or so in Washington, D.C., but then on to Los Angeles. The Indian suit thing true. All grotesques true. Between the imbecile savagery of my father, the disinterestedness of my mother, and the sweet hatred of my playmates: “Heinie! Heinie! Heinie!” things were pretty hot all around. They got hotter when I was in my 13th years on, I broke out not with acne, but with these HUGE boils, in my eyes, neck, back, face, and I’d ride the streetcar to the hospital, the charity ward, the old man was not working, and there they’d drill me with the electric needle, which is kind of a wood drill that they stick into people. Stayed out of school a year. Went to L.A. City College a couple of years, journalism. Tuition fee was two dollars but the old man said he couldn’t afford to send me anymore. I went to work in the railroad yards, scrubbing the sides of trains with OAKITE. I drank and gambled at night. Had a small room above a bar on Temple Street in the Filipino district, and I gambled at night with the aircraft workers and pimps and etc. My place got to be known and every night it was packed. It was hell getting my sleep. One night I hit big. Big for me. 2 or 3 hundred. I knew they’d be back. Got in a fight, broke a mirror and a couple of chairs but held onto the money and early in the morning caught a bus for New Orleans. Some young gal on there made a play for me, and I let her off at Fort Worth but got as far as Dallas and swung back. Wasted some time there and made N.O. Roomed across from THE GANGPLANK CAFE and began writing. Short stories. Drank the money up, went to work in a comic book house, and soon moved on. Miami Beach. Atlanta. New York. St. Louis. Philly. Frisco. L.A. again. New Orleans again. Then Philly again. Then Frisco again. L.A. again. Around and around. A couple of nights in East Kansas City. Chicago. I stopped writing. I concentrated on drinking. My longest stays were in Philly. I would get up early in the morning and go to a bar there and I would close that bar at night. How I made it, I don’t know. Then finally back to L.A. and a wild shack job of seven years drinking. Ended up in same charity hospital. This time not with boils but with my stomach torn open finally with rot gut and agony. 8 pints of blood and 7 pints of glucose transfused in without a stop. My whore came to see me and she was drunk. My old man was with her. The old man gave me a lot of lip and the whore was nasty too, and I told the old man, “Just one more word out of you and I’m going to yank this needle outa my arm, climb off this deathbed and whip your ass!” They left. I came out of there, white and old, in love with sunlight, told never to drink again or death would be mine. I found among changes in myself, that my memory which was once pretty good was now bad. Some brain damage, no doubt, they let me lay there a couple of days in the charity ward when my papers got lost and the papers called for immediate transfusions, and I was out of blood, listening to hammers against my brain. Anyhow, I got on a mail truck and drove it around and delivered letters and drank lightly, experimentally, and then one night I sat down and began writing poetry. What a hell of a thing. Where to send this stuff. Well, I took a shot. There was a magazine called Harlequin and I was a fucking clown and it was out in some small town in Texas and maybe they wouldn’t know bad stuff when they saw it, so—. There was a gal editor there, and the poor dear went wild. Special edition. Letters followed. The letters got warm. The letters got hot. Next thing I knew the gal editor was in Los Angeles. Next thing I knew we were in Las Vegas for marriage. Next thing I knew I was walking in a small Texas town with the local hicks glaring at me. The gal had money. I didn’t know she had money. Or her folks had money. We went back to L.A. and I went back to work, somewhere.
The marriage didn’t work. It took 3 years for her to find out that I was not what she had thought I was supposed to be. I was anti-social, coarse, a drunkard, didn’t go to church, played horses, cursed when intoxicated, didn’t like to go anywhere, shaved carelessly, didn’t care for her paintings or her relatives, sometimes stayed in bed 2 or
3 days running etc. etc.
Screams From the Balcony Page 5