Charles Bukowski - On Writing

Hallie Burnett coedited Story magazine, where Bukowski was first published in 1944.

[To Hallie Burnett]
Late October 1945

I received your rejection of Whitman: His Poetry and Prose, along with the informal comments of your manuscript readers.

Sounds like a nice thing.

Should you ever need an extra manuscript reader, please let me know. I cant find a job anywhere, so I might as well try you too.

[To Caresse Crosby]
October 9, 1946

[To Caresse Crosby]
November 1946

I must write you once more to tell you how delighted I was to receive that delicious photoRome 1946and your note. As to the lost manuscriptsdamn themthey were no good anyhowexcept maybe some violent sketches I made while sponging on my parents in Los Angeles. But such stuff to the birds: I am a poet, et al.

Drink still has me waveringtypewriter gone. Still, ha ha, I hand-print out my stuff in ink. Have managed to get rid of three fair stories and four unsatisfactory poems to Matrix, a rather old-fashioned Philadelphia little magazine.

I am really a much too nervous person to hitch hike to Washington to see you. I would break up into all sorts of quatern little pieces. Thanks, really, though. Youve been very decent, very.

Might send you something soon, but not for awhile. Whatever that means.

[To Whit Burnett]
April 27, 1947

Thank you for the note.

I dont think I could do a novelI havent the urge, though I have thought about it, and someday I might try it. Blessed Factotum would be the title and it would be about the low-class workingman, about factories and cities and courage and ugliness and drunkenness. I dont think if I wrote it now it would be any good, though. I would have to get properly worked up. Besides, I have so many personal worries right now that Im in no shape to look into a mirror, let alone run off a book. I am, however, surprised and pleased with your interest.

I havent any other pen sketches, without stories, right now. Matrix took the only one I did that way.

The world has had little Charles pretty much by the balls of late, and there isnt much writer left, Whit. So hearing from you was damned lovely.

[To Caresse Crosby]
August 7, 1953

Saw in book review (never really read one, but) your name, Dail Press.

You printed me sometime back in Portfolio, one of the earliest (1946 or so?). Well, one time came into town off long drunk, forced to live with parents during feeble clime. Thing is, parents read story (20 Tanks from Kasseldown) and burnt whole damn Portfolio. Now, no longer have copy. Only piece missing from my few published works. If you have an extra copy????? (and I dont see why in the hell you should have) it would do me a lot of good if you would ship it to me.

I dont write so much now, Im getting on to 33, pot-belly and creeping dementia. Sold my typewriter to go on a drunk 6 or 7 years ago and havent gotten enough non-alcoholic $ to buy another. Now print my occasionals out by hand and point them up with drawings (like any other madman). Sometimes I just throw the stories away and hang the drawings up in the bathroom (sometimes on the roller).

Hope you have 20 Tanks. Would appreci.

[To Judson Crews]
Late 1953

You send out the only cheerful rejections in America. Its nice to have the news behind those delicious photos! You are a pretty good guy, Id rather imagine.

I was impressed with your last edition of Naked Ear. It smacked of aliveness and artistry much more than, say, the latest edition of The Kenyon Review. That comes of printing what you want to print instead of printing what is correct. Keep it up.

Met Janet Knauff yesterday. She has met you. Took her to the races.

[To Judson Crews]
November 4, 1953

Ill be honest with you. You might as well keep those poems as long as you want to because when you do send them back Ill just throw them away.

Except for the new ones on top, these poems have been rejected by Poetry magazine and a new outfit, Embryo. Favorable remarks, etc., but they do not think my stuff is poetry. I know what they mean. The idea is there but I cant break thro the skin. I cant work the dials. Im not interested in poetry. I dont know what interests me. Non-dullness, I suppose. Proper poetry is dead poetry even if it looks good.

Keep these things as long as you like. Youre the only one who has shown an interest. If I do any more, Ill send them out to you.

[To Whit Burnett]
June 10, 1954

Please note change of address (323 N. Westmoreland Ave., L.A. 4), if you are holding up more of my wino masterpieces.

This piece rejected by Esquire is an expanded version of a short sketch I sent you some time ago. I guess its too sexy for publication. I dont know exactly what it means. I just got to playing around with it and it ran away with me. I think Sherwood Anderson would enjoy it but he cant read it.

[To Whit Burnett]
August 25, 1954

Im sorry to hear, through a slip sent me from Smithtown a couple of months back, that Story is no longer alive.

I sent in another story about that time called The Rapists Story, but havent heard. Is it about?

Ill always remember the old orange magazine with the white band. Somehow, Id always had the idea that I could write anything I wanted, and, if it was good enough itd get in there. Ive never gotten that idea looking at any other magazines, and especially today, when everybodys so god damned afraid of offending or saying anything against anybody elsean honest writer is in a hell of a hole. I mean, you sit down to write it and you know its no use. Theres a lot of courage gone now and a lot of guts and a lot of clearnessand a lot of Artistry too.

For my money, everything went to hell with World War 2. And not only the Arts. Even cigarettes dont taste the same. Tamales. Chili. Coffee. Everythings made of plastic. A radish doesnt taste sharp anymore. You peel an egg and, invariably, the egg comes off with the shell. Pork chops are all fat and pink. People buy new cars and nothing else. Thats their life: four wheels. Cities only turn on one-third of their street lights to save electricity. Policemen give out tickets like mad. Drunks are fined atrocious sums, and almost everybodys drunk whos had a drink. Dogs must be kept on a leash, dogs must be inoculated. You have to have a fishing license to catch grunion with your hands, and comic books are considered dangerous to children. Men watch boxing matches from their armchairs, men who never knew what a boxing match was, and when they disagree with a decision, they write vile and clamorous letters to the newspapers in protest indignant.