Slouching Toward Nirvana is my first foray into the strange nihilistic and unpretentious world of author Charles Bukowski. In his poem called, “the curse,” he writes of the unfortunate consequences of fame—the ultimate fragility of Tolstoy, Henry Miller, Hemingway, Celine, Ezra Pound, Hamsun, Ambrose Pierce and van Gogh. He ends with: “we are hardly ever / as strong / as that which we / create.” In a long poem called “The Tide,” he writes: “most of what we learn / in this crazy life is /what to avoid…like, say, / a fancy ending / to this poem.” A sense of humor here.
What is most interesting is the man himself—his anti-lit reputation, his popularity, his easy narrative style, and his rage. A number of his books have been published since his death in 1994. And after tasting this one, I am spurred to read more. The following review of Slouching Toward Nirvana by Matthew Firth , written in 2005, is illuminating. It gives a good account of the man; and I like his headstone:
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