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5
years ago today i bought my first
digital camera so i could photograph Uz Jsme Doma at the
Knitting Factory in New York City. i've been
doing this on-and-off chronicle ever since.
today, life was sweet. sold a bunch of stuff in the morning,
then spent a lot of time on the couch
reading Pulp by Charles
Bukowski. i first picked this up a year ago
and didn't like it. i think that's because
i'd just read his powerful autobiographical
novels post office and ham on
rye and wanted more of the same. pulp,
his last novel, was completed shortly before
his death in 1994 and is more a work of
fantasy--an absurd detective tale written in
classic hardboiled private eye style. it's a
pageturner, and i'd love to turn it into a
movie. it starts when Lady Death hires
private dick Nick Belane to ascertain the
identity of someone she thinks is Celine,
who has somehow escaped her grasp.
Bukowski's Celine is hilarious, a master of
the put-down. more clients follow, in the
best film noir tradition, but with bizarre
and humorous twists. Belane's association
with Lady Death proves beneficial a number
of times, but it is not without its price. I
couldn't put this down and the ending is a
gutwrencher. Running gags like Belane's
"high" fee ($6 an hour) and his inability to
get served in bars without a hassle prove
Buk's masterful comic touch, while slice of
life digressions take the reader places few
writers go. for instance, a space alien
laments: "The earth. Smog, murder, the
poisoned air, the poisoned water, the
poisoned food, the hatred, the hopelessness,
everything. The only beautiful thing about
the earth is the animals and now they are
being killed off, soon they will be gone
except for pet rats and race horses. It's so
sad, no wonder you drink so much." dedicated
to "bad writing," pulp is anything
but. |
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