Be Specific About Books In Favor Of Love Is a Dog from Hell
| Original Title: | Love Is a Dog from Hell: Poems, 1974-1977 |
| ISBN: | 0876853629 (ISBN13: 9780876853627) |
| Edition Language: | English |
Charles Bukowski
Paperback | Pages: 312 pages Rating: 4.14 | 24914 Users | 1206 Reviews
Identify Appertaining To Books Love Is a Dog from Hell
| Title | : | Love Is a Dog from Hell |
| Author | : | Charles Bukowski |
| Book Format | : | Paperback |
| Book Edition | : | First Ecco edition |
| Pages | : | Pages: 312 pages |
| Published | : | 2003 by Ecco (An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers) (first published 1977) |
| Categories | : | Poetry. Fiction. Classics |
Explanation During Books Love Is a Dog from Hell
people are not good to each other. perhaps if they were our deaths would not be so sad. Love him or hate him, Charles Bukowski was a bitter, drunken asshole with a gift for putting onto paper all the ugliness and baseness hiding in the human heart. Before jumping into the discovery and thoughts that are the inspiration for this ramble about the dirty old writer, a few moments should be spent on the actual poetry found in this volume. I’ve always enjoyed the earlier Bukowski, before he became too jaded and bitter and let a few really tender moments flower within all the crassness. Love, and more specifically the failures and loss of it, are the heart of this collection. All through the poems here are allusions to the ‘red haired woman’, whom Bukowski shows a deep regret in loosing. Much of the crassness feels reactionary to this loss of love as Bukowski documents a spiral into dirty, drunken debauchery and madness as a method of hardening the heart against such pains. Love is replaced with lust to erase loneliness, yet, ironically, it only instills further self-hatred and builds towards a crippling loneliness.there is always one woman to save you from another and as that woman saves you she makes ready to destroy.Bukowski is that drunk asshole always diving to the bottom of a glass, keeping shallow relationships and never trusting women. He is, at best, a rude misogynist, but under the layers of dysphemism, we see a heart drowning in sorrow (and booze). There is still some charm though, he is often humorous in his crassness, and there are moments where he truly shows remorse for the terrible manner in which human beings treat one another. He did not really like people, probably a lot of that having to do with his fear of being hurt by others. His poetry is rather simple, nothing complex to pick apart, and very rarely uses many poetic devices, but that is what makes it so powerful. It cuts right to the heart. He often describes the writing process as pounding the keys like a prizefighter, and often refers to his typewriter as his 'piano' (Bukowski was a huge fan of classical music, especially Brahms, and compares music and writing often). This collection contains a poem that not only introduced me to Knut Hamsun (who is now one of my favorite authors), but I’ve always kept in mind as a darkly comical motivation for being a writer:
How to be a Good Writer you've got to fuck a great many women beautiful women and write a few decent love poems. and don't worry about age and/or freshly-arrived talents. just drink more beer more and more beer and attend the racetrack at least once a week and win if possible learning to win is hard - any slob can be a good loser. and don't forget your Brahms and your Bach and your beer. don't overexercise. sleep until moon. avoid paying credit cards or paying for anything on time. remember that there isn't a piece of ass in this world over $50 (in 1977). and if you have the ability to love love yourself first but always be aware of the possibility of total defeat whether the reason for that defeat seems right or wrong - an early taste of death is not necessarily a bad thing. stay out of churches and bars and museums, and like the spider be patient - time is everybody's cross, plus exile defeat treachery all that dross. stay with the beer. beer is continuous blood. a continuous lover. get a large typewriter and as the footsteps go up and down outside your window hit that thing hit it hard make it a heavyweight fight make it the bull when he first charges in and remember the old dogs who fought so well: Hemingway, Celine, Dostoevsky, Hamsun. If you think they didn't go crazy in tiny rooms just like you're doing now without women without food without hope then you're not ready. drink more beer. there's time. and if there's not that's all right too.While looking to find more references to Hamsun in this collection, I noticed that within the margins, my own handwriting was mixed with that of another’s. It turns out that one of my closest friends, a friend I have not seen in years and have been separated from by the circumstances of life that separate even the closest of people, had gone through this book and left me all sorts of comments for me to think about, as well as comment upon my own reaction. It was like having a conversation across 3 years time with an old friend, the type of friend that is more like a brother. The power of language and writing seemed more important than ever suddenly, as it is a tool tying people together across space and time. This particular collection couldn’t be more fitting to find these notes written years earlier (I have a few other books where we both wrote notes to each other, such as Thus Spoke Zarathustra which we were both reading at the same time while he was our ‘guy on couch’ at an old apartment), both with Bukowski’s discussions of loneliness, but as it was indicative of my current state at that time. A few years ago was a bit of a darker period where the group of us had close ties and stayed rather under the radar of society. I would go to class, return to our apartment and we would spend all our time playing music, drinking and discussing film and books. This was a bitter period, as I had been in that post-heartbreak stage where the world seems ugly and, like Bukowski, just wanted to revel in my bitterness for awhile. Finding these notes brings back only the happy memories of those times and makes you realize that the loss of someone you loved as a brother is far more important to you than the loss of any former lover, and these are the people you miss most down the line in the birth pangs of some lonely, introspective morning. This all reminds me very much of the Savage Detectives and that sadness of people spreading out across the map as friendships rust and wash away in the changing tides. What struck me most was his notes about the sadness that permeates this collection. In one margin is written: ‘Bukowski seems genuinely troubled/depressed by the imagery of failed relationships and their aftermath – the failings of love and the intended + unintended ways we hurt one another’. That more or less sums this book up. I also enjoyed moments where he circled lines such as ‘oh brothers, we are the sickest and lowest of the breed’, which summed up that summer we all spent together in our tiny, dirty Ypsilanti apartment. He was also kind enough to highlight every mention of the ‘redhead’ and string together the story that is told through fragments. Enough of that emotional reflection though, nobody likes that sort of stuff. Which leads me to a quote from Neil Young (my favorite, and it pains me to be referencing such an obvious song instead of some lesser-known greater one) that ‘every junky is like a setting sun’. They are on their way out, difficult, if not painful, to look right at, yet beautiful. Bukowski fits this bill, as his life and works are painful to watch, but there is some beauty in there. Also like a setting sun, people like this aren’t something you can hang around long or you will get hurt (or loose your vision if you stare at the sun too long!). This is a messy metaphor, but I swear it’s going somewhere. Poems like those of Bukowski, or people who fit this bill such as drinking buddies, are good for certain times and places, however, you can’t linger there. When you are feeling dirty and ugly and crass, Bukowski is wonderful fun. Works like his are empowering at those times because you can relate and laugh along with, and, primarily, because it is reassuring to see that others with this same ugliness are able to create something beautiful. Once you’ve had your fill though, the time comes to move forward, as this sort of ugliness can only lead to more ugliness and eventually it will fill you and drag you down with it. These types of works are very reactionary, only as a venomous bite toward what hurts you and not a truly constructive method of moving on. The mid to late 2000s was full of this sort of behavior, look at the emo culture, where people wanted to express their disdain for the world around them (the emo culture did it with more self loathing and tears, whereas something like Bukowski is more about pushing someone away through acting depraved and hard when you actually truly want them to get close to you). However, we can’t always be angry and we have to move on, get over our problems, or they win. They become us. We can’t be simply made up of only our failures and sadness, we must learn to deal with them, get past them, and win by being stronger than our problems. I tend to rag on Chuck Palahniuk a lot, but he really fits this idea for me, and if I can quickly explain it, perhaps I won’t have to keep using him as an example anymore. His works were very popular in the era mentioned above (okay, I know Bukowski wasn’t writing then, but this has transcended Bukowski’s works into a discussion about getting over problems), because they were a gripe against social forces. Chuck P. took hold of many adolescents through writing stories with adults who are characterized like angsty teenagers. They view the world and societal constructs as threatening, as something holding them down, and turn to nihilism to deal with that. However, nihilism will only negate things, it won’t transcend them. I lost interest in Palahniuk once I realized that he would never offer a true solution to the problems he imposes on his characters (as well as simply recycling characters and techniques, but that is a different discussion). I couldn’t wallow in his cynicism and darkness any longer, and turned to bigger, better and brighter authors. I have never looked back. Yet, I can’t condemn him entirely, because he fit my 17 year old needs for awhile. I enjoyed Fight Club at the time, Choke made me laugh, and sometimes it is good to wallow in the ugliness. But stay to long and the pity-party, because that is all it really is, becomes sad and pathetic. All in all, I’m glad I’ve read Bukowski, but I feel like my life has taken me places where his opinions no longer really reach me. I can’t wallow in that sadness, and I find his lusts rather creepy and his woman-bashing rather offensive. However, that is exactly what he was striving for. Still, those moments of beauty are worth coming back for, and I can’t express enough how cool it was to find the notes from my friend. Mostly, being able to reminisce about those days of stupid, wild youth is what really holds my heart. 3.5/5 Okay, and this poem, Dinosauria, We is great (although not from this collection)
Rating Appertaining To Books Love Is a Dog from Hell
Ratings: 4.14 From 24914 Users | 1206 ReviewsWrite-Up Appertaining To Books Love Is a Dog from Hell
we are afraid.our educational system tells usthat we can all bebig-ass winners.it hasn't told usabout the guttersor the suicides.or the terror of one personaching in one placealoneuntouchedunspoken towatering a plant.I love, love, love Bukowski. And here is why I love him."she wore a platinum blonde wigand her face was rouged and powderedand she put the lipstick onmaking a huge painted mouthand her neck was wrinkledbut she still had the ass of a young girland the legs were good.she wore blue panties and I took them offraised her dress, and with the TV flickeringI took her standing up.as we struggled around the room(I'm fucking the grave, I thought, I'mbringing the dead back to life,marvelousso marvelouslike
people are not good to each other.perhaps if they wereour deaths would not be so sad.Love him or hate him, Charles Bukowski was a bitter, drunken asshole with a gift for putting onto paper all the ugliness and baseness hiding in the human heart. Before jumping into the discovery and thoughts that are the inspiration for this ramble about the dirty old writer, a few moments should be spent on the actual poetry found in this volume. Ive always enjoyed the earlier Bukowski, before he became too
1.5Charles Bukowskis poetry is polarizing. You either love it or hate it, and after reading Love is a Dog from Hell, Ive found myself in the latter camp.Okay, here we go. There are a few different themes Bukowski works with in this collection, but the most prominent theme is how a horny middle-aged man objectifies women through a thick veil of misogyny. Hes often boorish in a creepy, voyeuristic way; the commodification of women and young girls--yup, we get pedophilia here too--is unappealing,
people are not good to each other.perhaps if they wereour deaths would not be so sad.Love him or hate him, Charles Bukowski was a bitter, drunken asshole with a gift for putting onto paper all the ugliness and baseness hiding in the human heart. Before jumping into the discovery and thoughts that are the inspiration for this ramble about the dirty old writer, a few moments should be spent on the actual poetry found in this volume. Ive always enjoyed the earlier Bukowski, before he became too
Bukowski is one of those poets you can show to people who swear up & down that poetry is all rhyming & flowers. Even if you hate Bukowski, you must admit that he's an original. I love Bukowski. His poems are a perfect break from the 'real' world. They're brutally honest & lovely in their grotesqueness. This collection is wonderful. Sure it isn't for the faint of heart, but Bukowski really does prove that poetry comes in all shapes & sizes.
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