Read Storie di ordinaria follia by Charles Bukowski Pier Francesco Paolini Online

storie-di-ordinaria-follia

La biografia di Bukowski include due tentativi di lavorare come impiegato, dimissioni dal "posto fisso" a cinquant'anni suonati, "per non uscire di senno del tutto" e vari divorzi. Questi scarsi elementi ricorrono con insistenza nella narrativa di Bukowski, più un romanzo a disordinate puntate che non racconti a sé, dove si alternano e si mischiano a personaggi ed eventi dLa biografia di Bukowski include due tentativi di lavorare come impiegato, dimissioni dal "posto fisso" a cinquant'anni suonati, "per non uscire di senno del tutto" e vari divorzi. Questi scarsi elementi ricorrono con insistenza nella narrativa di Bukowski, più un romanzo a disordinate puntate che non racconti a sé, dove si alternano e si mischiano a personaggi ed eventi di fantasia. "Rispetto alla tradizione letteraria americana si sente che Bukowski realizza uno scarto, ed è uno scarto significativo", ha scritto Beniamino Placido su "La Repubblica", aggiungendo: "in questa scrittura molto "letteraria", ripetitiva, sostanzialmente prevedibile, Bukowski fa irruzione con una cosa nuova. La cosa nuova è lui stesso, Charles Bukowski. Lui che ha cinquant'anni, le tasche vuote, lo stomaco devastato, il sesso perennemente in furore; lui che soffre di emorragie e di insonnia; lui che ama il vecchio Hemingway; lui che passa le giornate cercando di racimolare qualche vincita alle corse dei cavalli; lui che ci sta per salutare adesso perché ha visto una gonna sollevarsi sulle gambe di una donna, lì su quella panchina del parco. Lui, Charles Bukowski, "forse un genio, forse un barbone". "Charles Bukowski, detto gambe d'elefante, il fallito", perché questi racconti sono sempre, rigorosamente in prima persona. E in presa diretta". Un pazzo innamorato beffardo, tenero, cinico, i cui racconti scaturiscono da esperienze dure, pagate tutte di persona, senza comodi alibi sociali e senza falsi pudori....

Title : Storie di ordinaria follia
Author :
Rating :
ISBN : 9788807808166
Format Type : Paperback
Number of Pages : 340 Pages
Status : Available For Download
Last checked : 21 Minutes ago!

Storie di ordinaria follia Reviews

  • Autumn
    2018-10-29 00:53

    i was first introduced to this book in the bathroom of a one-night-stand's house. i tried to delay the sex part, because i was actually more interested in the book than the guy but i was eventually overtaken. nonetheless, i went and bought the book the following week.

  • Roula
    2018-10-30 03:06

    Χωρις πολλα λογια, Μπουκοφσκι σε μεγαλα κεφια.ενα απο τα καλυτερα βιβλια του που εχω διαβασει με απολαυστικα διηγηματα, γεματα απο ολα αυτα τα στοιχεια που τον χαρακτηριζουν..

  • Cbj
    2018-11-18 02:18

    Bukowski is in the form of his life here. Every single story hits you hard. Most of them aren't more than 5 pages long. But the impact is tremendous. Basically Bukowski has just one story. That of the down and out, hard drinking and alienated vagabond who spews out some incredible social commentary. There are some gems like the one about guys with clean kitchens. And this wonderful line ".....doldrums of mechanical people in a mechanical act, trying to tickle their cement souls back into life with a spurt of come". That line pretty much nails what is wrong with most writers, actors, musicians and other artists these days. There is some hilarious criticism of Norman Mailer: "Somebody puts a book by Norman Mailer on me. Christians and Cannibals. God, he just writes on and on. There's no force, no humor. I don't understand it. Just a pushing out of the word, any word, anything, is this what happens to the famous? Think how lucky we are". :):):) And there is some severe criticism of dull poets like William Shakespeare. But there is never a dull moment in any of these stories. They are relentlessly pessimistic and viciously funny and they all make you want to quit your job or runaway from home. Which is what great literature should make you want to do.

  • Kyriakos Sorokkou
    2018-10-26 04:00

    This was one of those rare books that made me laugh out loud, with my heart; and yet behind these funny moments a grim reality was lurking underneath. The first time I saw Bukowski's photo, for a moment I thought he was the prolific Greek poet Yannis Ritsos and then I realised he was not. But beside the beard and the long wavy hair and their prolific writing careers they don't seem to share anything else.Ritsos is more lyrical more benign in his writing.Bukowski is more straightforward, with an in-yer-face rawness. I first learnt (spring 2015) more about Bukowski as a poet and writer through a few documentaries and videos I saw of him on YouTube and from reading about him online.Two and a half years later I stumble upon this book of short stories at a thrift shop and I said It's about time I read something by himI realised that this is some classic Bukowski by just reading the info on the back cover stating that the tales of this volume were originally collected together with more stories in a single volume entitled Erections, Ejaculations, Exhibitions and General Tales of Ordinary Madness... Thus, I dived in ...At the beginning I was a bit annoyed by his (characters') attitude towards women but as the stories became more and more autobiographical I started enjoying them more. Bukowski isn't hiding behind his words, he isn't using beautifying descriptions for things that can't be said, he isn't afraid to say what he feels. He is honest, filthy, misanthropic, has an acid pen and caustic humour, criticises everything from American life to Anna Karenina. He is Charles Bukowski.So, I won't say more about this book but I will leave you with a random extract that illustrates pretty well what I said about his writing:Bukowski hates Santa Claus. Bukowski makes deformed figures out of typewriter erasers. when water drips, Bukowski cries. when Bukowski cries, water drips. o sanctums of fountains, o scrotums, o fountaining scrotums, o man's great ugliness everywhere like that fresh dogturd that the morning shoe did not see again; o, the mighty police, o the mighty weapons, o the mighty dictators, o the mighty damn fools everywhere, o the lonely lonely octopus, o the clock-tick seeping each neat one of us balanced and unbalanced and holy and constipated, o the bums lying in alleys of misery in a golden world, o the children to become ugly, o the ugly to become uglier, o the sadness of sabres and the closing of the walls - no Santa Claus, no Pussy, no Magic Wand, no Cinderella, no Great Minds Ever, kukoo - just shit and the whipping of dogs and children, just shit and the wiping away of shit; just doctors without patients just clouds without rain just days without days, o god o mighty that you put this upon us. p.152

  • Indra Mangule
    2018-11-12 00:03

    I simply love Bukowski. He belonged to a world I dont quite understand and he disliked people on such a high level - it confuses me. He describes a universe, where all things are wrong and where meaning of going on seems as dubious as the claim that one can come out of this life still being sane.And yet, there are too many familiarities in what Bukowski says. I can sympathise to what he is saying or rather, what he seems to be feeling. Though the source of his impressions is different from mine, I think, in many ways, it leads us to the same destination. Or such is the feeling Bukowski leaves his reader with anyway.And the speech, the pauses, the choice of words. All these things just so happen to fall into the right places so that they can speak directly to the reader, so that the reader would be finally able to understand what is wrong with this world and that, really, none of us will leave from here alive. Better kick back with a beer or two.

  • StevenGodin
    2018-10-31 03:01

    Even though I am a big fan of Bukowski's novels I think his Strength was definitely in short stories and this collection has got everything you would come to expect from the master of low life literature, from the booze, women, cheap cigars and poetry reading to the drunken outbursts, lewd behaviour, betting on the horses and dead end jobs it's all there, and if I could choose any drinking buddy dead or alive there is no contest (I can almost picture the scene now with me probably waking up in the gutter!), and with so many memorable lines one of my favourites was just simply,"Vera," I said"What?" She asked"I am the world's greatest poet," I told her"living or dead?" She asked"dead," I said.Classic Bukowski!

  • LW
    2018-11-16 05:01

    Forse un genio , forse un barbone Difficile a dirsi .Di sicuro uno che scrive di se stesso e beve (sempre) troppo.Una scrittura diretta , rude , sgrammaticata (o è la traduzione? boh!)a volte "sconcia" , che riesce a farti respirare a fondo il tanfo dell'alcool e dello squallore e dell'emarginazione e della solitudine...anche se non mancano sprazzi di poesia.Il libro inizia con questo racconto:La piú bella donna della cittàCass era la piú giovane e la piú bella di 5 sorelle. Cass era la piú bella ragazza di tutta la città. Mezzindiana, aveva un corpo stranamente flessuoso, focoso era e come di serpe, con due occhi che proprio ci dicevano. Cass era fuoco fluido in movimento. Era come uno spirito incastrato in una forma che però non riusciva a contenerlo. I capelli neri e lunghi, i capelli di seta, si muovevano ondeggiando e vorticando come il corpo volteggiava. Lo spirito, o alle stelle o giú ai calcagni. Non c'era via di mezzo, per Cass. C'era anche chi diceva ch'era pazza. Gli imbecilli lo dicevano.Gli scemi non potevano capirla. Agli uomini in genere Cass pareva una macchina da fottere, e quindi non gliene fregava niente, fosse o non fosse pazza. E Cass ballava e civettava, si lasciava baciare dagli uomini, ma, tranne qualche rara volta, quando si stava per venire al dunque, com'è come non è, Cass si eclissava, Cass aveva eluso gli uomini.Le sorelle l'accusavano di sprecare la sua bellezza, di non fare buon uso del cervello. Ma Cass ne aveva da vendere, di cervello e di spirito. Dipingeva, danzava, cantava, modellava la creta, e quando qualcuno era ferito, mortificato, nel corpo o nell'anima, Cass provava compassione per costui.Il suo cervello era, ecco, differente; la sua mentalità non era pratica, ecco quanto.E poi ,tra cosce , sbronze , rabbie , amarezze e follie , trovi racconti come "Sei pollici" "Animali in libertà" e infine "La coperta" e...Al Diavolo, vecchio pazzo di un Bukowskiallora forse non sei solo erezioni eiaculazioni ed esibizioni !?Forse.3 stelline e mezzosì, perchè mezza stellina l'ho proprio dovuta togliere, per quella parola- orrenda - di 5 lettere che inizia per s e finisce per a ripetuta ogni 3 per 2 :)

  • Víctor Blanco
    2018-10-29 08:13

    Como antología de relatos, los hay mejores y los hay peores. Pero los buenos brillan mucho.

  • Ray
    2018-10-21 04:52

    I couldn't get into this book. I really liked Post Office but this one left me cold. I felt that the quality was patchy - a few of the stories I really liked, but some appeared to me to be dashed off at speed or written just to shock.

  • Henry Martin
    2018-11-05 07:05

    Bukowski – the man, the myth, the legend. I’ve been reading Bukowski’s works on and off for the past 25+ years, and I have yet to find it boring. Tales of Ordinary Madness is a collection of 34 short stories, some fictional, some less so, and some downright out of his own, unique life. Unlike his other, pseudo-autobiographical works, or his other short story collections, this one was harder to read than most. Not because of the subject matter – after 25 years I know what to expect from him – but because of the frequent lack of proper punctuation, capitalization, and discard for text readability. In essence, many of these stories appear as how they would have been written prior to a proper edit. (this could have been either an intentional choice, or true first drafts – either way, it does not matter to me enough to do the research) Although harder on the eyes, the style does not take away from the content. In this collection, Bukowski delivers his usual subject matters in his usual style. The master of the lowlife short story form. And for that, I am grateful. By contemporary standards, Bukowski would be a misogynist, a racist, a tramp, a drunk, and a generally unappealing person. However, the same standards would throw many other great writers under the bus, so to speak. And Bukowski was, undoubtedly, a great writer. Sure, he was a drunk, and probably not a very nice person. Nevertheless, Bukowski dealt in raw emotions, raw settings, and he did not really give a flying f#@#k about what I, or anybody else think of him. He wrote because he had to (those nagging voices would not stop), and he wrote in an utmost honest way. And that, I can appreciate. There were many other great writers, but none came even close when it came to honest, raw emotion – Kerouac was too polished, Miller too philosophical, and Hemingway . . . well. The beauty in Bukowski’s writing lies in its simplicity. If something smells like shit, he writes that. If he is too drunk to get an erection, he writes that. If he manages to get laid, he writes that. And if he finds himself in jail on yet another drunk charge, he writes that, too. He is able to observe the world, make fun of it, and laugh at himself at the same time. In an era where the radio pours forth the high-pitched voices of whiny, wimpy-sounding male singers; where the media promotes sensitive males, tough women, and gender-neutral bathrooms; where political correctness trumps everything else – Bukowski’s rough manliness is a breath of fresh air (even though he was not being a man - he just did not give a damn). [and judging by the rise of #MeToo the image of correctness, equality, and sensitivity is very much just an image] I would never want to be like him, however, I can appreciate his existence. In a way, Bukowski’s writing shows what he always said – he hated people, society, ideals – he wanted to be left alone. He drank to escape his inner demons, to escape the world. He gave up on the world, and reemerged honest in a way many other writers could not. Reading his works never fails to inspire me to create, which is perhaps the paradox in all of this.

  • FrancoSantos
    2018-11-02 00:54

    Muy pocos relatos me gustaron de este libro. No obstante, volveré a intentarlo con este autor.

  • Aaron Maddox
    2018-10-21 01:58

    i learned that even the most obstruct, vile, deepest tretches of a mans soul based on views of things you and i avoid yet confront reluctantly in our evryday lifes can be depicted as art.i began eating away at this book as a way to pass time while sittingg in a texas county jail. i had no idea what i was getting my self into, let alone who the fuck charles bukowski was. but it opened my eyes to the true beauty some beat poets have to offer.the way he includes himself into his stories of other men that keep you in a constant state of confusion as to whether he is talking about himself, another, or speaking through mere hypothetical situations he created to render himself clear of the ravished ambitions he once called his own. that being said i believe that buk incorperates himself (by using false names) into situations where he acts and speaks the way most of us amricans wish we could in the most average of situations we always seem to find ourselves in. by no means am i proud to say i can relate to this poet and frankly i could have happily gone along with the sad story written by some arrogant masicistic being they call god whom is the author to my life with out ever running into this sonofabitches book, but as freud said there are no accidents. (forgive me fo being so cliche) that being said i still to this day find my self craving (as i do all things that are bad for me) more of the incredibly enlightening yet disturbing literature written by charles bukowski.

  • Anatoly
    2018-11-17 00:57

    Never really read anything like that. It`s dark (although usually, humorously) and pessimistic, with Bukowski (or his fictional alter egos) always making sure to hit rock bottom. There is no real connection between the stories (which are not all equal in quality, with some being better than others) except for the main motives- drinking, swearing, sex and the occasional law breaking or in other words, the life of a drunk and a dirty old man. This is not for the faint of heart!

  • Rafal
    2018-11-13 02:54

    Bukowskiego wolę zdecydowanie w długich formach powieściowych. Jego opowiadania to często bardziej felietony, takie lekko bełkotliwe obserwacje zdegenerowanego życia przez zdegenerowanego człowieka. I to ma swój urok, ale czasem jest męczące a czasem po prostu nudne. Takie miałem uczucie czytając niektóre opowiadania z tego tomu. Ale jednocześnie co jakiś czas zdarzają się absolutne perełki surrealistycznego, dosadnego humoru, które czyta się z wielką przyjemnością. W tym wypadku były to "Odsiadka z wrogiem...", "Dom dla czubków...", "Fioletowy jak irys", "Zwierzęta napluły mi do zupy" czy "Koc". Niektóre są przezabawne, niektóre wzruszające, wszystkie (także te słabsze) gorzkie, prawdziwe i wiarygodne. I - jak zawsze u Bukowskiego - co jakiś czas trafia się na zdanie, które wbija w fotel. I czasem takie zdanie robi całe opowiadanie. I czasem dla takiego zdania warto je przeczytać.

  • Emily
    2018-10-28 03:15

    This was my introduction to Bukowski. A friend loaned me this book after reading a short story I wrote, telling me that I would probably enjoy it.As I read it, a strange feeling came over me. It was the feeling of excitement knowing that I was reading something brilliant mixed with the feeling that I got when I saw Hustler Magazine for the first time. I think it describes Bukowski's work perfectly. His words are both beautiful and debauched at the same time. Still one of my favorite books.

  • Víctor
    2018-11-13 04:21

    Aunque estoy convencido de que hay lecturas positivas que te ayudan ha vivir, y hay lecturas negativas que te oscurecen el acto existencial, creo que es necesario mirar en ambos sentidos. Hay que ser higiénicos y hay que embarrarse en lodo de vez en cuando. Bukowski es chapotear en fango: divertido, sarcástico, irónico, deprimente, destructivo, nada para tomarse en serio. La receta es la misma: pobreza, alcoholisimo, mujeres-carne, el heroísmo en el vacío existencial.

  • Valentin Gheonea
    2018-11-17 07:13

    Eterna poveste a inculturii traducatorilor. In cazul nostru o traducatoare care nu a auzit de Elixirul dragostei de Donizetti si il traduce prin Elixirul iubirii, la fel, in loc de Rapsodia albastra - Rapsodia in albastru. Ma indispun cumplit genul asta de rateuri. Editura este Polirom, banuiesc ca e aceeasi traducere.

  • Ginny_1807
    2018-10-26 08:14

    È difficile valutare dal punto di vista letterario questi racconti, nei quali vengono sovvertiti tutti i canoni compositivi e grafici tradizionali, in una ripetizione ossessiva di temi, situazioni ed eccessi che talora si sospetta volti soprattutto a stupire, provocare e scandalizzare; ma soprattutto è difficile scindere il giudizio qualitativo dell’opera da quello personale sull’autore, poiché ad essere oggetto del giudizio del lettore è essenzialmente lui, Charles Bukowski. Persona o personaggio che sia, è Hank che emerge nel bene e nel male in ogni storia: Buk, detto “gambe di elefante, il fallito”, con la sua sete inestinguibile e i suoi furenti ardori sessuali, con il suo egocentrismo prepotente e il suo cinico pessimismo, con la sua fragilità, sensibilità e tenerezza celate dietro l’arroganza e l’irriverenza. Qualcuno afferma di avere trovato divertente o appassionante la lettura di questi aneddoti, che sembrano concorrere alla realizzazione di una sorta di romanzo autobiografico composto da piccoli quadretti di vita. Personalmente invece ne ho tratto piuttosto angoscia, fastidio, irritazione e a volte pena. Perché dietro il cinismo scanzonato e lo sfoggio eccessivo e gratuito di volgarità, si percepisce un disagio profondo, un acuto malessere derivante dall’intolleranza non solo di qualunque disciplina, ma perfino di ogni più comune norma del vivere quotidiano. La cupa visione del mondo e dell’umanità in B. è al contempo motivazione e giustificazione, cioè alibi, della sua scelta di vita, che lo relega negli strati sociali più reietti e trova nell’alcol e nel sesso sfrenato il solo antidoto contro la disperazione. Brevi momenti di oblio e unico rifugio da una realtà intollerabile, pur nella lucida consapevolezza di stare correndo in discesa la china verso l’autodistruzione, e anzi spesso compiacendosene. A ben vedere, il suo atteggiamento è anche elitario e snobistico, per il fatto che vivere come un barbone per lui, a differenza della schiera di emarginati di cui si circonda, non è una necessità, ma una volontà affermata in spregio alle convenzioni e alle ipocrisie; uno sberleffo ai dettami di uno stile di vita che mirerebbe a inquadrare ogni individuo entro schemi prestabiliti. È vero che anche lui è un alcolizzato dedito alle scommesse sui cavalli e alle più sordide imprese, ma è anche uno scrittore affermato e quindi passibile di riscatto, come sappiamo essere poi avvenuto. Lurido sporcaccione o ineguagliabile genio? Eroe tragico o astuto millantatore? Adorabile furfante o detestabile profittatore? Quel che è certo è che di fronte a lui non si resta indifferenti e che il vecchio Hank è entrato nel mito.

  • Roberto
    2018-10-23 04:55

    Il libro è costituito da racconti che descrivono, con una scrittura forzatamente volgare, la vita di Charles Bukowski. Dai racconti emerge uno scrittore sempre senza soldi, che pensa solamente ad andare all'ippodromo, ad ubriacarsi e al sesso in tutte le sue forme. Questi "argomenti" sono esposti in modo ripetitivo, prevedibile ed anche, talvolta, disgustoso. Bukowski non si fa scrupoli nel raccontarci come fa sesso (in tutti i modi ed in ogni momento), come si ubriaca (sempre), come si svuota l'intestino (peggio di una mucca...), come dorme (in continuazione), come vive alla giornata. Tutte cose che dopo poche (proprio poche) pagine iniziano ad annoiare a morte.I personaggi che descrive sono persone qualunque trovate tra gli strati più bassi della società, disperati che giocano ai cavalli perdendo lavoro e famiglia, ubriaconi, prostitute. E li descrive molto bene sapendo di appartenere a quella società, sapendo di essere esattamente come le persone che descrive. Non critica, Bukowski. Non si compiace dello squallore che vede. Si limita a registrare le follie, spesso senza senso, delle persone che incontra. Sforzandosi un po' di capire cosa stia dietro l'apparenza (oscena, sconclusionata, alcolica e anche sgrammaticata), si nota una certa ironia di fondo, una visione delle cose cupa e pessimistica, un voler mostrare ogni aspetto misero della vita per quello che è, senza possibilità di riscatto. Sembra che Bukowski disprezzi profondamente questa società, che non ascolta o non si interessa dei problemi e delle necessità dei singoli.Ci sono parecchie frasi molto profonde, disperse nel testo." Tante volte uno deve lottare così duramente per la vita che non ha tempo di viverla""Il codardo è uno che prevede il futuro. Il coraggioso è privo d'ogni immaginazione""Diventa bravo in qualsiasi campo, e ti crei subito dei nemici. I campioni vengono innalzati affinché la folla provi poi maggior gusto a vederli rotolare, battuti, fra la merda, e goda a subissarli di fischi."Purtroppo non ho terminato il libro (e di solito finisco pure le pagine gialle, se le inizio...), nonostante fossi partito bene, perché la caccia al tesoro di queste chicche non mi interessava più. Neppure nei fumetti di "Lando il montatore" che da ragazzino trovavo dal barbiere si trovavano dei dialoghi così basici, così ripetitivi e quindi così noiosi.Non conoscevo questo autore e devo dire che è riuscito abbastanza a stupirmi. Purtroppo, nel complesso, mi ha stupito negativamente, in quanto nel libro ho visto solo tanta tristezza, negatività e pessimismo in una cornice ripetitiva e stancante.

  • Julie Rylie
    2018-11-13 07:12

    Bukowski, Bukowski... even though this guy uses mostly the same topics on his books there is something about it that draws me again and again and again to it like I'm addicted. And I have to say in terms of exposing his mind and philosophizing about various topics this book for me it's the one that is most well written (among the ones I have read so far of course). I've underlined some quotes and lines of thought that I want to add to the quotes here later. There is a lot of talk about the race track of course (one of my least favorite Bukowski themes);beautiful and caring thoughts on his daughter (as I said before it is really to this person that he puts all his love and energy at, because the other people are for him, just other people, as it seems); love the thoughts on hallucinogenics and weed. Weed for Bukowski is a phony drug and how he explains why is just fucking funny; there is a weird story about a girl that owned a zoo; I loved the one about his dreams and how he dreams about trying to sleep in his room exactly how it was before (I used to have this so many times it was insane); The Zen marriage is a very very good one;I never knew that Bukowski was in a looney bin before (even though it's perfectly plausible);This title: Cunt and Kant and a Happy home - genius!I'm sure if I'll read my underlined quotes I'll come up with more.

  • Patve
    2018-11-08 00:18

    Ufff.... este libro ha sido una pasada....Bukowski puede golpearte, asquearte, emocionarte, deprimirte y hacerte reír , todo de una vez... ha de ser por eso que un escritor maldito...Hay algunos relatos muy flojos.... pero hay otros que son notables...Y uno en particular, que fue muy difícil de digerir...la pedofilia es un tema complicadísimo para mí....y no puedo con él

  • Chris
    2018-10-24 05:19

    once upon a time, in a shitshack bookstore not unlike so many other shitshack bookstores, a life-long love was forged. employed at this store was a strapping young lad named chris. bright-eyed. bushy-tailed. boneheaded. and enamored with the wealth of books surrounding him. he was perplexed as where to even begin looking for the good stuff, and he’d often scour the place after business hours. labyrinthine shelves. stocked endcaps. free-standing or pop-up displays. a pile of books here and there some moron set down so he could scratch his ass. despite the countless volumes present, chris had hope. and why not, our friend was endowed with a 30% discount, and a penis often favorably compared to the neck of a brontosaurus. the job itself was a rotten sham. a seasonal gig. it paid a few gracious cents more than the current minimum wage. a career path to absolutely nowhere. worse yet, he couldn’t seem to find anything that tickled his fancy while stalking about. until, one day, after a hectic holiday shopping spree, our stalwart hero was restoring normalcy to his store’s wares in the aftermath of the havoc perpetrated by the yuletime shoppers. the droves of mindless cretins had certainly kicked the store’s ass that day, in pursuit of their wise investments. chris had seen what they were buying while jockeying the register, generally weak shit. Jackie Collins. Clive Cussler. self-help and new age mumbo-jumbo. some presumably-lame shit called “Primary Colors” which was absolutely flying off the shelves that year. sales of voodoo spells and autoerotic asphyxiation were lagging, symptons of a relatviely strong economy. due to the general chaos, chris was left to rearrange to the demanding satisfaction of his taskmaster, todd. this nimrod wielded his pitiful authority like a broadsword. todd read fantasy books by the baker’s dozen. todd’s social skills were what you’d expect of leprous eunuch. todd always had some crusty, white deposits disgustingly accentuating the corners of his thin, weird lips. todd probably diddled himself in the office under the auspices of making the nightly deposit. some deposit. chris endured this chump’s whims in order to continue collecting his unimpressive wages, but that doesn’t mean he was happy. it might even be safe to say that chris was hella pissed off. but better pissed off than pissed on, or so he’d been told.it’s impossible to pinpoint exactly what act of buffoonery caused the ensuing chance encounter to occur. this much is certain: chris was ‘facing’ one of the shelves sporting the works of authors with surnames beginning with “B”. part of this duty was restocking books on the shelf which had wandered off in the course of the day. books he’d collected canvassing the shop for shit laying around. books which had literally grown legs and gone for a stroll. or books which some clod had brought to the counter, realized they’d never jerk off to, and decided against actually purchasing it. either way, these fuckers weren’t going to put themselves back in alphabetical order. the books, that is. that’s what chris was being paid for. perhaps he was in the act of restoring a copy of Dandelion Wine to its rightful place after discovering it abandoned in the ‘sports’ section. or he could have been returning Don Quixote to its accepted spot in the literary chain of existence from its careless exile near the magazine racks. but a wise man with a dollar to wager might be best betting that poor chris was fucking something up. say foolishly trying to cram a movie-tie-in copy of Burrough’s Naked Lunch to the ‘fiction’ section. seems reasonable. not quite. store policy strictly mandated that at least one copy of each m.t.i. rightfully belonged on the crappy little ‘entertainment’ island, and chris was erroneously placing this where he felt it was best represented instead. whatever foolishness occurred, it was a blessing, in hindsight. it set into motion the forthcoming life-affirming infatuation. not far from the scene on the numbskullery, having repaired the misappropriation of whichever volume, chris surveyed some of the nearby titles. one leaped out at his ignorant, adolescent ass, Tales of Ordinary Madness by Charles Bukowski. This sounded promising, chris thought. he knew a little something about madness, he was snapping mad this particular evening, hell, he was extraordinarily mad, and probably figured he could do with toning it down a notch, to plain, Ordinary Madness. already impressed, his initial reaction was confirmed by the cover photo. a grizzled, smoking pollack. solid. plus, a testimonial on the back by some crappy offbeat publisher (at this age chris knew this sort of company published all the significant material) affirming that “people seem to either love him or hate him.” The accolades went on to promise “tales of [Bukowski’s:] own life doings are as wild and weird as the very stories he writes…exceptional stories that come pounding out of his violent and depraved life". chris was immediately sold. he set this treasure aside, although removing this book now created a little wiggle room on the shelf. but nothing big enough to attempt fucking. chris moved on. upon completion of his menial responsibilities, he sauntered up to todd and made use of his employee discount (unfortunately, he couldn’t find a way to also utilize that appallingly-large appendage as well at the time).over the next few days, chris repeatedly burst into juvenile hysterics over Bukowski’s crude wit. this shit was priceless. he cracked up with each mention of uncontrollable vomiting. chris exploded with glee at each knee-slapper concerning cocks. admired the disregard this badass had his for liver, the police, and his myriad whores. foul language and dirty thoughts, culminating in stories alternately ridiculous and astounding. but it would be insulting to say that the book only satisfied on these lowbrow levels, more importantly, chris had a thematic appreciation for this clever shit. the revelation in failure promoted by bukowski. haughty contempt for society and their phony and puerile pop culture. Buke’s obviously-unrecognized genius was apparent, as in many stories he toiled fruitlessly as some workaday goon, and chris was sadly comforted when this noble malcontent spoke of the futility of trying to stay sane in an already fucked-up world. sure, he still nearly pissed himself as Buke recounted episodes of scrubbing pigeon shit, miserable sexcapades, and uncontrollable puking, but this might have been the first book that actually spoke to chris as a person. a few stories here and there missed the mark, but chris reasoned he may simply be too young to associate with these, perhaps he’d have to live, and love, and spectacularly fail in order to fully appreciate the few stories which didn’t captivate. he reassured himself this was probably the case, his own lifestyle wasn’t to far removed from Buke’s, he’d come to that understanding some day. hell, chris figured if he could imagine his future-self putting anything to paper, it would probably look quite similar. he looked at the degenerate on the cover again; not a comforting thought.as chris got older (one cannot claim he grew up) he eventually worked his way through almost everything he could locate by his depraved hero. save for the poetry. and full-length stories. this suited him just fine. he was never a fan of poetry to begin with. for some reason suspected Bukowski’s novels would blow, as his love of the stories was dictated by their brief, kick-in-the-nuts approach. besides, it seemed quite unlikely anyone could continue being that funny and asinine for over a hundred consecutive pages. chris still thought that this shit was hilarious, perhaps the printed panacea for a dismal day. and now, a decrepit, old pollack himself, chris has to admit that he still likes the Bukester, albeit quite a bit less than he used to. of the 30+ stories within Tales of Ordinary Madness, chris really only thought that 10 of them were really A-list material during this recent reading. not only was this disturbing in that this count was down from 16 just a few years ago, but there wasn’t a single B-list or below that he’d come to appreciate in age. perhaps there really isn’t anything deeper in these stories; mayhap all they can serve as is a quick, shock-value fix to get you sniggering. sure, at times it’s a bit depresseing that some stories read as though buke is fighting with all his might to maintain the self-image he’s perpetuated all these years: some poor fool unable to adapt or simply to stubborn to grow up. it might be even more soul-destroying that chris, and quite possibly many of you, can still relate.but, fuck it. this shit is still hilarious. Personal favorites: The Great Zen Wedding, Goodbye Watson, My Stay in the Poet’s Cottage, Rape! Rape!, No Stockings, and The Blanket.

  • Jovi Ene
    2018-11-02 08:13

    Povestirile lui Bukowski nu-l mai au în prim-plan pe Chinaski, ci cu totul alte personaje, inclusiv pe unul... Bukowski, dar cu același tipic: băutură (anti-droguri!), femei, arta de a scrie, singurătate și dorința de a reuși (oriunde, chiar și la cursele de cai).Este clar că Bukowski nu poate plăcea oricui, pentru că ascunde și multă mizerie, și singurătate, și misoginism, și duritate sau violență. Dar talentul său este neîndoielnic și veți ieși schimbați din această experiență.În plus, nu e de citit pe plajă că nu știi când te trezești cu o erecție :D

  • Craig Stone
    2018-11-14 01:11

    I lost this book when I was about 50 pages from the end. I think I might have left it in the gym - which is probably some sort of Bukowskian sin. I'll read those last pages one day, but I knew from half way in that this was a five star book. I love Bukowski. I love his tales of ordinary madness. Though, of course, the madness isn't ordinary because Bukowski wasn't like most people.He drinks his way through the book, offending the world around him, offending himself...it reads like a bewildered kid trying to figure out why he has suddenly been let out of a cupboard, and instead of the punch in the face he was expecting to receive, he instead gets applause from a world of strangers. Some people don't like Bukowski, but part of his beauty is he doesn't want you to like him. He doesn't care about the reader. He wrote because without writing he might have simply been a monster. But his words made him a genius.His honesty, in a literary world crammed with vampires in love and all sorts of bestselling ideas that get published and make me want to puke, is something I often revisit to remind myself why I love writing. He feels like, to me, the last of the old days. If you don't get him, that's fine. But Bukowski has to be respected. He's one of the all time very best.

  • Bausertron
    2018-11-07 07:00

    This wasn't an amazing, blow you away book, but is that what you would really expect going into it? I've read a handful of Bukowski novels before and I've liked them even though some of their honesty makes me cringe now and again.This is a selection of short stories, mostly autobiographical, and I found them delightful and easy to digest. I've never read any of Bukowski's poetry, but he does a good job at truncated writing. Little blurbs of thought and ponderings of things instead of forcing a long story where one does not exist.I found this book to be heartfelt, braggish, intriguing, thought-provoking, appalling, upsetting, and many other buzz words.While I'm sure there are many fabrications, Bukowski's honesty and unapologetic documentation of some of his day to day living is pretty eye-opening stuff, even if he processes it through a filter of a narrative. As someone who can be kind of a drunken ass sometimes, it was a nice little peek into other people's motivations and existence while not solely defining them by those actions.

  • Tfitoby
    2018-11-05 02:13

    He writes well, this much is obvious, but I really just didn't care about reading what felt like the same 'story' over and over again.I enjoyed his writerly voice, the tone of the prose, the attitude of it all, it was so dirty and real as you would expect of somebody influence so obviously by Ernest Hemingway but, and maybe it is because of these expectations that I didn't love it, I was expecting more, something to make me want to keep turning the pages, plot maybe? And if that's so then I guess I leave myself open to criticism for it.It very quickly felt like something of a chore to read, which is a shame. I feel bad about it. Usually I am filled with vitriol and bile when a book makes me want to give up. I don't hesitate to criticise it, tear it apart, throw it away but here, in this case, I am just sad.

  • Ryan
    2018-11-11 06:17

    I was looking for something new (to me) in the early 90's and some dweeb in a Brentano's recommended this to me because Bukowski has died months before. I hate discovering something great just after the author has died. I also hate people saying how great some author (or artist) was after they die, but they never had much to say while the author was still alive. Anyway, this is one of his two greatest novels.

  • PinkCoffee
    2018-11-11 02:19

    Turiu pripažinti, kad tikrai užtrukau, kol šią knygą baigiau. Jei ne užklupusi nesiliaujanti nemiga, kuri prilygta lengvam ,,beprotybės" jausmui, šios Bukio kūrinių kolekcijos gal ir apskritai nebūčiau daugiau į rankas paėmusi. Nesutinku, kad būtent šioje knygoje atsiskleidžia visas autoriaus talentas. Daugybė apsakymų ganėtinai kartojasi, tad galiausiai pasidaro nuobodoka, per daug nuspėjama, o jei vis tik užsikabini, netrukus istorija baigiasi. Kaip visada, rašytojo stilius nepriekaištingai maištingas, laužantis visas gramatikos bei išpuoselėtos estetikos taisykles, kas mane asmeniškai nepaprastai žavi, tačiau ,,sueis" tikrai ne kiekvienam. Trumpai ir aiškiai - knyga nėra niekam tikusi, tačiau ir ne pati geriausia, ką teko skaityti iš Bukowskio repertuaro Jei norisi ,,susipažinti" su autoriumi bei jo kūryba, siūlčiau tą pažintį pradėti nuo ,,Pašto".

  • Agent of Fortune
    2018-11-16 03:56

    Буковски. Всички го почитат и възхваляват. Малко хора си позволяват да говорят за крайно сексистките му коментари, които не просто ми се набиват твърде много на очи, ами и ми ги избиват... В цялата книга се повтаря история след история за изнасилвания и как нашият приятел не може да се сдържи. Все едно. Като цяло книгата ми хареса (естествено като изключим сексизма), Буковски си е Буковски с всичките му псувни и крайни изказвания, въпреки това верни. Твърде грубовато подхвърлено, без увъртания, ония коне естествено никога не ги разбрах, все едно, цинизъм на ниво отвратителност, реалността е изобразена по един ужасен начин, по който само той може да я обясни. Всяка жена е к*рва, всеки мъж е пиян глупак, на няколко места се появява жена, чието ниво никой не може да достигне и се описва детайлно всяка част от тялото `и. Имаше моменти, в които ме избиваше на смях, други на озадачаване, в трети просто си блъсках главата да разбера живота на една дърта пияница. А може би не е за разбиране. Само на една история, която ме грабна най-много се смях 10 минути в час, озаглавена "Тези велики писатели". Заслужава си да се прочете циничността. Може би малко хора ще я разберат, де. Но нормалността е дефект.

  • Frahorus
    2018-11-02 01:59

    Charles Bukowski è un autore che spiazza: o piace o si odia. Io lo conobbi per caso in biblioteca scegliendo casualmente Panino al prosciutto, una sorta di biografia della sua vita. Ecco, se ancora non conoscete questo autore particolare e sopra le righe, vi consiglio di partire leggendo proprio Panino al prosciutto. Ho piacevolmente ritrovato un autore che mi mancava, del quale ti affezioni, nonostante il suo stile forte e brusco. Questa raccolta di racconti (scritti tra il 1967 e il 1972) ci mostra tutte le caratteristiche e le tematiche a lui care: corse di cavalli, donne, avventure al limite della decenza, ubriacature, insonnie, tasche vuote, eccetera eccetera. Lui è un genio e contemporaneamente un barbone. Lui è un santo e insieme un peccatore. Un fallito e insieme un uomo di successo con le donne. Forse un pazzo, ma un pazzo che sa come godersi la vita. A volte crudo, a volte delicato e poetico. Lui è semplicemente se stesso, ecco quello che mi piace di Bukowski: lui ti porta se stesso.