Bukowski has been romanticized by many and republished often, even since his death in 1994 (On Writing being one example). And I think so many have inevitably idolized him, because he captures and represents the lonely years of creation without validation. The relentless pursuit of art accompanied by struggle. A large following has developed from admiring his fight to remain true to his own artistic beliefs despite public opinion, respectable or not.
I know how Van Gogh felt
I wonder if he carried shit and blood in his pants
and painted on elephant ears?
How can these boys stand a chance, these 4-f hairy poets and
when they drink goat’s milk, punch clocks,
raise families, move to Glendale, vote for Nixon,
wax their cars, bury grandma, take vitamins,
how can they make it. haw how can they make it????
standing outside the fire?
Here’s a disclaimer: In no way do I feel that living in Glendale or raising a family or burying grandma or any of these things is wrong. There’s simply a correlation Bukowski draws between people cut from a certain consistent cloth and their lack of interest to jump in the fire with him. The fire of raw creation. The fire that makes each moment unique yet the same that is capable of burning you alive. The road less traveled because it is not safe.
The road the pure artist takes. This is not Bukowski praise, rather an excerpt reflecting a noble attitude of those who dare to dare…
- 7Ply Epic