now, if you were teaching creative writing, he asked, what would you tell them?

I’d tell them to have an unhappy love

affair, hemorrhoids, bad teeth

and to drink cheap wine,

avoid opera and golf and chess,

to keep switching the head of their

bed from wall to wall

and then I’d tell them to have

another unhappy love affair

and never to use a silk typewriter

ribbon,

avoid family picnics

or being photographed in a rose

garden ;

read Hemingway only once.

skip Faulkner

ignore Gogol

stare at photos of Gertrude Stein

and read Sherwood Anderson in bed

while eating Ritz crackers,

realize that people who keep

talking about sexual liberation

are more frightened than you are.

listen to E. Power Biggs work the

organ on your radio while you’re

rolling Bull Durham in the dark

in a strange town

with one day left on the rent

after having given up

friends, relatives and jobs.

never consider yourself superior and /

or fair

and never try to be.

have another unhappy love affair.

watch a fly on  a summer curtain.

never try to succeed.

don’t shoot pool.

be righteously angry when you

find your car has a flat tire.

take vitamins but don’t lift weights or jog.

then after all this

reverse the procedure.

have a good love affair.

and the thing

you might learn

is that nobody knows anything –

not the state, nor the mice

the garden hose of the North Star.

and if you ever catch me

teaching a creative writing class

and you read this back to me

I’ll give you a straight A

right up the pickle

barrel.

Bukowski, Charles. « now, if you were teaching creative writing, he asked, what would you tell them? », Love is a Dog From Hell, Poems 1974-1977, Harper Collins 1977, p. 233-234

love is a dog from hell

feet of cheese

coffeepot soul

hands that hate poolsticks

eyes like paperclips

I prefer red wine

I am bored on airliners

I am docile during earthquakes

I am sleepy at funerals

I puke at parades

and am sacrificial at chess

and cunt and caring

I smell urine in churches

I can no longer read

I can no longer sleep

eyes like paperclips

my green eyes

I prefer white wine

my box of rubbers is getting

stale

I take them out

Trojan-Enz

lubricated

for greater sensitivity

I take them out

and put three of them on

the walls of my bedroom are blue

Linda where did you go?

Katherine where did you go?

(and Nina went to England)

I have toenail clippers

and Windex glass cleaner

green eyes

blue bedroom

bright machinegun sun

this whole thing is like a seal

caught on oily rocks

and circled by the Long Beach Marching Band

at 3:36 p.m.

there is a ticking behind me

but no clock

I feel something crawling along

the left side of my nose :

memories of airliners

my mother had false teeth

my father had false teeth

and every Saturday of their lives

they took all the rugs in their house

waxed the hardwood floors

and covered them with rugs again

and Nina is in England

and Irene is on ATD

and I take my green eyes

and lay down in my blue bedroom.

Bukowski, Charles. « love is a dog from hell », Love is a Dog From Hell, Poems 1974-1977, Harper Collins 1977, p. 230

liberty

she was sitting in the window

of room 1010 at the Chelsea

in New York,

Janis Joplin’s old room.

it was 104 degrees

and she was on speed

and had one leg over

the sill,

and she leaned out and said,

“God, this is great!”

and then she slipped

and almost went out,

just catching herself.

it was very close.

she pulled herself in

walked over and stretched

on the bed

I’ve lost a lot of women

in a lot of different ways

but that would have been

the first time

that way.

then she rolled off the bed

landed on her back

and when I walked over

she was asleep.

all day she had been wanting

to see the Statue of Liberty.

now she wouldn’t worry me about that

for a while.

Bukowski, Charles. « liberty », Love is a Dog From Hell, Poems 1974-1977, Harper Collins 1977, p. 186

the meek have inherited

if I suffer at this

typewriter

think how I’d feel

amont the lettuce-

pickers of Salinas?

I think of the men

I’ve known in

factories

with no way to

get out –

choking while living

choking while laughing

at Bob Hope or Lucille

Ball while

2 or 3 children beat

tennis balls against

the walls.

some suicides are never

recorded.

Bukowski, Charles. « the meek have inherited», Love is a Dog From Hell, Poems 1974-1977, Harper Collins 1977, p. 139

this then –

it’s the same as before

or the other time

or the time before that

here’s a cock

and here’s a cunt

and here’s trouble.

only each time

you think

well now I’ve learned :

I’ll let her do that

and I’ll do this,

I no longer want it all,

just some comfort

and some sex

and only a minor

love.

now I’m waiting again

and the years run thin.

I have my radio

and the kitchen walls

are yellow.

I keep dumping bottles

and listening

for footsteps.

I hope that death contains

less than this.

Bukowski, Charles. « this then – », Love is a Dog From Hell, Poems 1974-1977, Harper Collins 1977, p. 134

alone with everybody

the flesh covers the bone

and they put a mind

in there and

sometimes a soul,

and the women break

vases against the walls

and the men drink too

much

and nobody finds the

one

but they keep

looking

crawling in and out

of beds.

flesh covers

the bone and the

flesh searches

for more than flesh.

there’s no chance

at all :

we are all trapped

by a singular fate.

nobody ever finds

the one.

the city dumps fill

the junkyards fill

the madhouses fill

the hospitals fill

the graveyards fill

nothing else

fills.

Bukowski, Charles. « alone with everybody », Love is a Dog From Hell, Poems 1974-1977, Harper Collins 1977, p. 97-98

how to be a great 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 talent

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 noon.

avoid credit cards

or paying for anything on

time.

remember that there isn’t a piece of ass

in this world worth 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.

Bukowski, Charles. « how to be a great writer », Love is a Dog From Hell, Poems 1974-1977, Harper Collins 1977, p. 93-94

me

me

women don’t know how to love,

she told me.

you know how to love

but women just want to

leech.

I know this because I’m a woman.

hahaha, I laughed.

so don’t worry about your breakup

with Susan

because she’ll just leech onto

somebody else.

we talked a while longer

then I said goodbye

hungup

went into the crapper and

took a good beershit

mainly thinking, well,

I’m still alive

and have the ability to expel

wastes from my body.

and poems.

and as long as that’s happening

I have the ability to handle

betrayal

loneliness

hangnail

clap

and the economic reports in the

financial section.

with that

I stood up

wiped

flushed

then thought :

it’s true:

I know how to

love.

I pulled my pants and walked

into the other room.

Bukowski, Charles. « me », Love is a Dog From Hell, Poems 1974-1977, Harper Collins 1977, p. 31-32

Le réel

« Mais il arrive pourtant que, malgré les injonctions des spin doctors et l’ingéniosité des publicitaires, malgré le conditionnement de la société du spectacle, malgré l’anesthésie de la consommation à outrance, malgré le rire obligatoire, malgré les drogues, les calmants et l’alcool que nous consommons pour le tenir à distance, un peu de réel réussisse à surnager.

    Et ça fait mal. Le regard des naufragés fait mal. L’arrogance des puissants fait mal. L’insondable stupidité des médias fait mal. Notre responsabilité, par-dessus tout notre responsabilité personnelle, fait mal. Nous avons les mains sales, nous savons que nos fonds de pension se construisent sur la mise à sac de la planète et la détresse des chômeurs, et ça fait mal. Nous savons que notre indifférence et notre veulerie sont la source du marasme politique dont nous feignons de nous plaindre et ça fait mal. Mais cette douleur est notre chance et notre espoir ; c’est en elle que subsiste un peu de notre humanité ; c’est à partir d’elle que pourra se construire notre refus. »

Émond, Bernard. « Le réel » Il y a trop d’images. Lux éditeur, Montréal, 2011. p.106

Ce que les gens veulent

« Il s’agit ici de responsabilité. Et c’est une responsabilité à laquelle il est impossible d’échapper. En abdiquant devant l’apathie des électeurs comme devant les goûts des lecteurs et des spectateurs, les hommes politiques, les journalistes ou les propriétaires de médias deviennent, de toute façon, responsables de l’indifférence et de l’inculture. Car il y aussi une pédagogie de la passivité et de l’ignorance. Jean Charest forme des citoyens au désintéressement du bien commun et Pierre-Karl Péladeau éduque des lecteurs et des spectateurs à l’inculture et au mépris du savoir. [...] En politique, comme dans les médias, il est impossible d’échapper à la responsabilité pédagogique. Il faut choisir : former des citoyens responsables et cultivés ou conforter des consommateurs ignorants et apathiques. »

Émond, Bernard. « Ce que les gens veulent » Il y a trop d’images. Lux éditeur, Montréal, 2011. p.83

Résister

« Résister, c’est la grande affaire. Il n’y a rien de possible sans cela. Résister à l’insignifiance ambiante, c’est déjà là quelque chose, mais pour ne pas tomber dans le cynisme, qui est la maladie contemporaine des gens intelligents, il faut encore savoir résister à l’argent et au découragement. Devant un monde qui se dégrade et qu’on désespère de voir changer, la tentation est forte de rentrer dans le rang et céder. Combien de socialistes de 20 ans sont devenus des bourgeois satisfaits de 50 ans ? Combien de jeunes cinéastes se sont perdus corps et âme dans l’« industrie » ou ont baissé les bras devant l’inacceptable? On dit que c’est normal. Chris Giannou, à qui on demandait comment il se faisait qu’il avait conservé les idéaux de sa jeunesse, répondait que c’était plutôt à ceux qui les avaient reniés qu’il faudrait poser la question. »

Émond, Bernard. « Il y a trop d’images » Il y a trop d’images. Lux éditeur, Montréal, 2011. p.52-53

Divertere

« Divertere : se séparer de. Ne pas accepter la responsabilité. Ne pas accepter de voir. Ne pas accepter d’être au monde. Fermer les yeux. Ne plus être. Avec mes films, je veux faire le contraire. Je veux être présent au monde, à sa beauté, à sa douleur. Et je veux partager avec les spectateurs cette idée très simple : il faut être attentif. »

Émond, Bernard. « Un film noir » Il y a trop d’images. Lux éditeur, Montréal, 2011. p.36

Distraits

« Nous sommes distraits, perpétuellement distraits jusqu’à l’inconscience, et la vie glisse sur nous comme la pluie sur le dos d’un canard. Sinon, comment expliquer autrement cette apathie, cette somnolence, ce coma des facultés morales? Comment expliquer que nous soyons à ce point sans réaction devant l’horreur du monde comme devant sa beauté? Tout se passe comme si nous ne croyions plus au réel, comme si nous avions abandonné d’avance l’idée que nous pouvions y vivre. Nous sommes devenus les spectateurs désabusés d’une réalité que notre inattention a vidée de sa substance. Tout ce qui transite par la moulinette médiatique est déréalisé, et ce qui n’y accède pas n’a pas d’existence pour nous. »

Émond, Bernard. « Avant-propos » Il y a trop d’images. Lux éditeur, Montréal, 2011. p.11

I'm bound to pack it up

« I'm sorry to leave you all alone
you're sitting silent by the phone
but we've always known there would come a day

The bus is warm and softly lit
and a hundred people are ridin' it
I guess I'm just another running away »

The White Stripes, « I'm Bound to Pack it Up ». De Stijl. 2000

Cave

« Life is sweet, inside of a big cave. »

Kerouac, Jack. Maggie Cassidy. Penguin Books, 1959. p. 160

Get ready to be busy in the world

« Thing was – Maggie wanted me to be more firm and binding in my contractual marriages of mate and heart with her – she wanted me to stop acting like a schoolboy and get ready to be busy in the world, make headways for her and our brood, and breed. Spring rank suggested this in breezes of prim river that now I began to enjoy as the iced ruts in Maggie’s Massachussetts Street began to uncongeal, crystal, crack, and swim – “Frick frack” would have the goodlooking hoodlum on the corner of Aiken and Moody Street and still your May’d come. “Damfool” will be the lark saying on a branch and I know that juices and syrup sops would pulse come throbbing springtime – “Never know would ye the wood was damp on the bottom” would be saying the old champions out in pine fields. I’d walk all over Lowell aweing and ooing my measures to the brain. Doves too coo. The wind like harp’ll blow blah blah over Lowell. »

Kerouac, Jack. Maggie Cassidy. Penguin Books, 1959. p. 150

All our misunderstandings

« If I’d laugh, and throw love teeth in her face, the big grin of accepting rapportive joy, she’d have just a twinge of suspicion in my motives – which would deepen – all night – till the bottomless sorrows of the dark – all my dark walks back from her house – all our misunderstandings – all her schemes, dreams – floop – all gone. »

Kerouac, Jack. Maggie Cassidy. Penguin Books, 1959. p. 124

The freigh trains still rumbles

« “Mag-gie!” The kids are calling under the railroad bridge where they’ve been swimming. The freight train still rumbles over a hundred cars long, the engine threw the flare on little white bathers, little Picasso horses of the night as dense and tragic in the gloom comes my soul looking for what was there that disappeared and left, lost, down a path – the gloom of love. Maggie, the girl I loved. »

Kerouac, Jack. Maggie Cassidy. Penguin Books, 1959. p. 33