Читать книгу Come On In! - Charles Bukowski - Страница 8

long ago, oh so long ago, when

I was trying to write short stories

and there was one little magazine which printed

decent stuff

and the lady editor there usually sent me

encouraging rejection slips

so I made a point to

read her monthly magazine in the public

library.

I noticed that she began to feature

the same writer

for the lead story each

month and

it pissed me off because I thought that I could

write better than that

fellow.

his work was facile and bright but it had no

edge.

you could tell that he had never had his nose rubbed into

life, he had just

glided over it.

next thing I knew, this ice-skater-of-a-writer was

famous.

he had begun as a copy boy

on one of the big New York

magazines

(how the hell do you get one of those

jobs?)

then he began appearing in some of the best

ladies’ magazines

and in some of the respected literary

journals.

then after a couple of early books

out came a little volume, a sweet

novelette, and he was truly

famous.

it was a tale about high society and

a young girl and it was

delightful and charming and just a bit

naughty.

Hollywood quickly made a movie out of

it.

then the writer bounced around Hollywood

from party to party

for a few years.

I saw his photo again and again:

a little elf-man with huge

eyeglasses.

and he always wore a long dramatic

scarf.

but soon he went back to New York and to all the

parties there.

he went to every important party thereafter for years

and to

some that weren’t very

important.

then he stopped writing altogether and just went

to parties.

he drank or doped himself into oblivion almost

every night.

his once slim frame more than doubled in

size.

his face grew heavy and he no longer looked

like the young boy with the quick and dirty

wit but more like an

old frog.

the scarf was still on display but his hats were

too large and came down almost to his

eyes;

all you noticed was his

twisted

lurid

grin.

the society ladies still liked to drag him

around New York

one on each arm

and

drinking like he did, he didn’t live

to enjoy his old age.

so

he died

and was quickly

forgotten

until somebody found what they claimed was his secret

diary / novel

and then all the famous people in

New York were very

worried

and they should have been worried because when it

was published

out came all the dirty

laundry.

but I still maintain that he never really did know how to

write; just what and

when and about

whom.

slim, thin

stuff.

ever so long ago, after reading

one of his short stories,

after dropping the magazine to the floor,

I thought,

Jesus Christ, if this is what they

want,

from now on

I might as well write for

the rats and the spiders

and the air and just for

myself.

which, of course, is exactly what

I did.