User Reviews
Rating: really liked it
i was first introduced to this book in the bathroom of a one-night-stand's house. i tried to delay the sex part, because i was actually more interested in the book than the guy but i was eventually overtaken. nonetheless, i went and bought the book the following week.
Rating: really liked it
Every story in this collection wants to make you drink yourself silly, run away from home or quit your job. Bukowski has just one story. That of the outcast who is an alcoholic involved in some menial job struggling with his sexual frustrations and instinctive living.
There are takedowns of mediocre poets like Shakespere. There is great criticism of Norman Mailer - "
God, he just writes on and on. There's no force, no humor. I don't understand it. Just a pushing out of the word, any word, anything ....."
And this great quote - "
Doldrums of mechanical people in a mechanical act trying to tickle their cement souls back into life." That pretty much nails everything that is wrong with most books, music, movies and activism today.
(Goodreads deleted my old review. I wrote the above from memory.)
Rating: really liked it
DNF on page 80.
I’ve read half of these stories now, and they’re all more or less the same.
They focus on an alcoholic main character, either returning from prison or doing something that will inevitably send him back to prison.
I will say this truly is ‘dirty realism’. The character makes rape jokes, he is sexist and violent. He is depicted well in the sense that I despised him. It’s also highly realistic as there are types of people like this in the world, which is frightening, but true.
I’m still giving a star rating as like I said I’ve read about 10 of these stories and I feel that’s enough to formulate an opinion. It’s not a bad book but I couldn’t stomach it anymore so I’m leaving it here.
Rating: really liked it
Tales of Ordinary Madness, Charles Bukowski
Tales of Ordinary Madness is one of two collections of short stories by Charles Bukowski.
Contents: A .45 To Pay The Rent; Doing Time With Public Enemy No. 1; Scenes From The Big Time; Nut Ward Just East Of Hollywood; Would You Suggest Writing As A Career?; The Great Zen Wedding; Reunion; Cunt And Kant And A Happy Home; Goodbye Watson; Great Poets Die In Steaming Pots Of Shit; My Stay In The Poet's Cottage; The Stupid Christs; Too Sensitive; Rape! Rape!; An Evil Town; Love It Or Leave It; A Dollar And Twenty Cents; No Stockings; A Quiet Conversation Piece; Beer And Poets And Talk; I Shot A Man In Reno; A Rain Of Women; Night Streets Of Madness; Purple As An Iris; Eyes Like The Sky; One For Walter Lowenfels; Notes Of A Potential Suicide; Notes On The Pest; A Bad Trip; Animal Crackers In My Soup; A Popular Man; Flower Horse; The Big Pot Game; The Blanket. ...
تاریخ نخستین خوانش: روز دواردهم ماه سپتامبر سال 2019 میلادی
عنوان: حکایتهایی از دیوانگیهای روزمره؛ نویسنده: چارلز بوکوفسکی؛ مترجم: مهسا نظام آبادی؛ اردبیل، انتشارات عنوان، 1395؛ در 60 ص؛ شابک: 9786007826096؛ چاپ دیگر در 56 ص؛ تهران، کارگاه اتفاق؛ 1398؛ شابک: 9786229632802؛
عنوان: برای من غمگین نشوید؛ نویسنده: چارلز بوکوفسکی ؛ مترجم: سینا کمالآبادی؛ غاردبیل ، انتشارات عنوان، 1395؛ در 96 ص؛ شابک: 9786007826164؛ چاپ دیگر: تهران، کارگاه اتفاق؛ 1398؛ در 120 ص؛ شابک: 9786229632802؛
داستانهای «جنون معمولی» یکی از دو مجموعه داستان کوتاه «چارلز بوکوفسکی» است که از میان داستانهای چاپ شده ی ایشان در سال 1972 میلادی برگزیده شده است. نام مجموعه دوم، «زیباترین زن شهر» است و هر دو مجموعه، در سال 1983 میلادی نیز منتشر شده اند. نقل نونه متن: (خیلی وقتها وضعیت آشپزخانه مثل وضعیت ذهن است. مردهای آشفته و به هم ریخته، مردهای رو به راه: مردهای اندیشمندند. آشپزخانه شان مثل ذهنشان است: پر از آت و آشغال، پر از خرت و پرت های کثیف و آلوده. اما از این وضعیت ذهن خود به خوبی باخبرند و از آن بدشان هم نمیآید. گاهی از کوره در میروند، به زمین و زمان بد و بیراه میگویند و آتشی به پا میکنند که بیش و کم به این آتش خلاقیت میگوییم. درست مثل زمانی که کمی سرشان گرم است و آشپزخانه را تمیز میکنند. ولی خیلی زود دوباره همه چیز به هم میریزد و دوباره آتششان میخوابد و به بابو، قرص و دوا، دعا و جادو، رابطه ی جنسی، بخت آزمایی و عرفان رو میآورند؛ ولی مردی که همیشه آشپزخانه اش مرتب است، ناتو است. از این مرد بر حذر باش! وضع آشپزخانه اش مثل وضع ذهنش است: همه چیز مرتب است و سر جای خود. گذاشته است زندگی زود تبدیلش کند به ملاطی سیمانی و سفت و سخت با طرز فکری منظم که هم نگه اش میدارد و هم خیالش را راحت میکند. اگر ده دقیقه به حرفهایش گوش کنید، میفهمید که تا حالا هرچه در زندگی اش گفته به کلی بی معناست و هیشه کلافه کننده. این مرد، مرد سیمانی است. در مقایسه با انواع دیگر مردها، مردهای سیمانی بیشترند؛ پس اگر سراغ هر مردی رفتی اول به آشپزخانه اش نگاهی بینداز و وقتت را تلف نکن. اما آشپزخانه ی کثیف یک زن ــ از نگاه مردها ــ قصه ی دیگری است. اگر زن شاغل نیست و بچه هم ندارد، تمیزی یا کثیفی آشپزخانه اش تقریباً همیشه - به جز موارد استثنایی - نسبت مستقیم دارد با اینکه چقدر به تو اهمیت میدهد. بعضی زنها تئوریهایی درباره ی نجات جهان دارند اما نمیتوانند یک فنجان قهوه را بشورند. اگر همین حرفها را هم به آنها بزنی، در جواب میگویند: «شستن فنجان قهوه چه اهمیتی دارد.» متاسفانه، اهمیت دارد. به ویژه برای مردی که پشت ماشین تراش هشت ساعت کامل و دو ساعت هم اضافه کاری کرده است. اگر میخواهی دنیا را نجات دهی از نجات یک مرد شروع کن، بقیه اش حرفهای رمانتیک پرطمطراق یا سیاست بازی است. زنان خوب هم در دنیا هستند؛ من حتی یکی دو تایشان را دیده ام. پس زنی هم پیدا میشود که جور دیگری باشد؛ یکبار این شغل لعنتی داشت مرا طوری میکشت که در پایان هشت یا بیست و یک ساعت کار، کل بدنم مثل یک تکه چوبِ خشک شده بود و درد میکرد. میگویم «چوبِ خشک» چون جور دیگری نمیتوانم توصیفش کنم. یعنی آخرشب حتی نمیتوانستم کتم را بپوشم. نمیشد حتی دستهایم را بلند کنم و در آستینهایم جا دهم. شدت درد آن چنان زیاد بود که دستم را حتی تا همین حد هم نمیتوانستم بلند کنم. با کوچکترین حرکتی درد مثل گاوی وحشی که نور قرمز دیده باشد، حمله میکرد. دیوانه کننده بود. اینبار به یک سری جریمه هایی برمیخوردم که بیشترشان ساعت سه یا چهار صبح نوشته شده بودند. آنشبِ به خصوص که داشتم از سر کار به خانه برمیگشتم و سعی میکردم از خودم در برابر ریزه کاریهای بی اهمیت فنی محافظت کنم؛ خواستم دست چپم را دراز کنم و وقت پیچیدن با حرکت دست به چپ اشاره کنم. راهنماهایم دیگر کار نمیکرد؛ چون یکبار که مست بودم دسته ی راهنما در رفته بود، و به فرمان چسبیده بود؛ این بود که میخواستم دست چپم را دراز کنم. فقط توانستم مچ دستم را بیرون پنجره ببرم و یکی از انگشتان کوچکم را دراز کردم. دستم دیگر حرکت نمیکرد و دردش مضحک بود. انقدر مضحک که زدم زیر خنده؛ خیلی خنده دار بود: آن انگشت کوچکی که به فرمان بهترین راننده ی لس آنجلس بیرون بود؛ شب سیاه و خالی؛ هیچ کسی آن دور و بر نبود و من علامتی معیوب و مزخرف به باد میدادم. خنده ام گرفت و در همان حالی که فرمان میدادم و میخندیدم سعی داشتم با آن یکی دستِ ناقصم فرمان را کنترل کنم و نزدیک بود به ماشینی پارک شده بزنم. موفق شدم که هرجوری بود پارک کنم. کلید انداختم و وارد شدم: آه، خانه! ...)؛ پایان نقل. ا. شربیانی
Rating: really liked it
I simply love Bukowski. He belonged to a world I dont quite understand and he disliked people on such a high level - it confuses me. He describes a universe, where all things are wrong and where meaning of going on seems as dubious as the claim that one can come out of this life still being sane.
And yet, there are too many familiarities in what Bukowski says. I can sympathise to what he is saying or rather, what he seems to be feeling. Though the source of his impressions is different from mine, I think, in many ways, it leads us to the same destination. Or such is the feeling Bukowski leaves his reader with anyway.
And the speech, the pauses, the choice of words. All these things just so happen to fall into the right places so that they can speak directly to the reader, so that the reader would be finally able to understand what is wrong with this world and that, really, none of us will leave from here alive. Better kick back with a beer or two.
Rating: really liked it
I shouldn't be dropping a bombshell here by stating that I am partial to some Bukowski, as really, it's fairly old news. After reading and entirely loving Post Office a few years back, I was hoping and I suppose I was expecting to feel the same about this book.
Tales of Ordinary Madness is very different to other Bukowski I've read and enjoyed. I felt like this was written in haste, and much of it was put down in order to startle someone that isn't used to Bukowski's style. I've said it before, he's like marmite, you either love him or you hate him.
Various breasts, the female sex and vomit were in my face in nearly every chapter, and although this didn't shock or upset me, I feel that if there isn't a story to connect these things together, except maybe a rushed bit of dialogue that makes little sense, then these things are entirely irrelevant. I craved plot. Even just a smidgen.
The style was also more difficult to appreciate, due to the lack of punctuation and capitalization. Obviously this was done purposely, but for me, I felt like It needed a complete and swift editing job.
There is some hope to be found here, though. I do recognise Bukowski for all that he was, which was a drunk in reality, and he's probably not a person you'd enjoy taking for a coffee, but apart from that, he was always brutally honest about life, including the highs and lows that come as standard with it. I can appreciate that he really didn't care what another person thought of him or his choices. He lived his life as he saw fit, mostly wanting to be left to his own devices, and all of the time giving the conformists the middle finger.
Even though I didn't love this, I sincerely hope that I enjoy my next Bukowski more.
Rating: really liked it
Even though I am a big fan of Bukowski's novels I think his Strength was definitely in short stories and this collection has got everything you would come to expect from the master of low life literature, from the booze, women, cheap cigars and poetry reading to the drunken outbursts, lewd behaviour, betting on the horses and dead end jobs it's all there, and if I could choose any drinking buddy dead or alive there is no contest (I can almost picture the scene now with me probably waking up in the gutter!), and with so many memorable lines one of my favourites was just simply,
"Vera," I said
"What?" She asked
"I am the world's greatest poet," I told her
"living or dead?" She asked
"dead," I said.
Classic Bukowski!
Rating: really liked it
Ben Gazzara
https://youtu.be/upL99XQ5_jQ
Style is the answer to everything,
A fresh way to approach a dull or dangerous thing,
To do a dull thing with style is preferable to doing a dangerous thing without it,
To do a dangerous thing with style is what I call art.
Bullfighting can be an art,
Boxing can be an art,
Loving can be an art,
Opening a can of sardines can be an art.
Not many have style.
Not many can keep style.
I have seen dogs with more style than men,
although not many dogs have style.
Cats have it with abundance.
When Hemingway put his brains to the wall with a shotgun,
that was style.
Or sometimes people give you style
Joan of Arc had style,
John the Baptist,
Christ,
Socrates,
Caesar,
García Lorca
I have met men in jail with style.
I have met more men in jail with style than men out of jail.
Style is the difference, a way of doing, a way of being done.
Six herons standing quietly in a pool of water,
or you walking out of the bathroom, naked, without seeing me.
Rating: really liked it
This was one of those rare books that made me laugh out loud, with my heart; and yet behind these funny moments a grim reality was lurking underneath.
The first time I saw Bukowski's photo, for a moment I thought he was the prolific Greek poet Yannis Ritsos and then I realised he was not. But beside the beard and the long wavy hair and their prolific writing careers they don't seem to share anything else.
Ritsos is more lyrical more benign in his writing.
Bukowski is more straightforward, with an in-yer-face rawness.
I first learnt (spring 2015) more about Bukowski as a poet and writer through a few documentaries and videos I saw of him on YouTube and from reading about him online.
Two and a half years later I stumble upon this book of short stories at a thrift shop and I said
It's about time I read something by himI realised that this is some classic Bukowski by just reading the info on the back cover stating that the tales of this volume were originally collected together with more stories in a single volume entitled
Erections, Ejaculations, Exhibitions and General Tales of Ordinary Madness... Thus, I dived in ...
At the beginning I was a bit annoyed by his (characters') attitude towards women but as the stories became more and more autobiographical I started enjoying them more.
Bukowski isn't hiding behind his words, he isn't using beautifying descriptions for things that can't be said, he isn't afraid to say what he feels.
He is honest, filthy, misanthropic, has an acid pen and caustic humour, criticises everything from American life to Anna Karenina. He is Charles Bukowski.
So, I won't say more about this book but I will leave you with a random extract that illustrates pretty well what I said about his writing:
Bukowski hates Santa Claus. Bukowski makes deformed figures out of typewriter erasers. when water drips, Bukowski cries. when Bukowski cries, water drips. o sanctums of fountains, o scrotums, o fountaining scrotums, o man's great ugliness everywhere like that fresh dogturd that the morning shoe did not see again; o, the mighty police, o the mighty weapons, o the mighty dictators, o the mighty damn fools everywhere, o the lonely lonely octopus, o the clock-tick seeping each neat one of us balanced and unbalanced and holy and constipated, o the bums lying in alleys of misery in a golden world, o the children to become ugly, o the ugly to become uglier, o the sadness of sabres and the closing of the walls - no Santa Claus, no Pussy, no Magic Wand, no Cinderella,
no Great Minds Ever, kukoo - just shit and the whipping of dogs and children, just shit and the wiping away of shit; just doctors without patients just clouds without rain just days without days,
o god o mighty that you put this upon us.
p.152
Rating: really liked it
Bukowski – the man, the myth, the legend.
I’ve been reading Bukowski’s works on and off for the past 25+ years, and I have yet to find it boring.
Tales of Ordinary Madness is a collection of 34 short stories, some fictional, some less so, and some downright out of his own, unique life.
Unlike his other, pseudo-autobiographical works, or his other short story collections, this one was harder to read than most. Not because of the subject matter – after 25 years I know what to expect from him – but because of the frequent lack of proper punctuation, capitalization, and discard for text readability. In essence, many of these stories appear as how they would have been written prior to a proper edit. (this could have been either an intentional choice, or true first drafts – either way, it does not matter to me enough to do the research) Although harder on the eyes, the style does not take away from the content.
In this collection, Bukowski delivers his usual subject matters in his usual style. The master of the lowlife short story form. And for that, I am grateful.
By contemporary standards, Bukowski would be a misogynist, a racist, a tramp, a drunk, and a generally unappealing person. However, the same standards would throw many other great writers under the bus, so to speak. And Bukowski was, undoubtedly, a great writer.
Sure, he was a drunk, and probably not a very nice person. Nevertheless, Bukowski dealt in raw emotions, raw settings, and he did not really give a flying f#@#k about what I, or anybody else think of him. He wrote because he had to (those nagging voices would not stop), and he wrote in an utmost honest way. And that, I can appreciate.
There were many other great writers, but none came even close when it came to honest, raw emotion – Kerouac was too polished, Miller too philosophical, and Hemingway . . . well.
The beauty in Bukowski’s writing lies in its simplicity. If something smells like shit, he writes that. If he is too drunk to get an erection, he writes that. If he manages to get laid, he writes that. And if he finds himself in jail on yet another drunk charge, he writes that, too. He is able to observe the world, make fun of it, and laugh at himself at the same time.
In an era where the radio pours forth the high-pitched voices of whiny, wimpy-sounding male singers; where the media promotes sensitive males, tough women, and gender-neutral bathrooms; where political correctness trumps everything else – Bukowski’s rough manliness is a breath of fresh air (even though he was not being a man - he just did not give a damn). [and judging by the rise of #MeToo the image of correctness, equality, and sensitivity is very much just an image] I would never want to be like him, however, I can appreciate his existence.
In a way, Bukowski’s writing shows what he always said – he hated people, society, ideals – he wanted to be left alone. He drank to escape his inner demons, to escape the world. He gave up on the world, and reemerged honest in a way many other writers could not.
Reading his works never fails to inspire me to create, which is perhaps the paradox in all of this.
Rating: really liked it
This book effectively sucked my soul out & demolished my will to live
Rating: really liked it
For me, reading Bukowski is like driving by the site of a huge traffic accident where a flatbed semi loaded with overflowing port-a-potties just plowed into a church bus filled with aging, syphilitic prostitutes on their way to confession—you want to see it but you don’t want to see it, but you do.
Bukowski calls these short stories “fiction” but then his chief protagonist is named ‘Charles Bukowski’ so you start to think this is more autobiographical—and then he populates these vignettes with hot, sexy women who are all clamoring to sleep with ‘Charles Bukowski’—and that’s how you know, yeah, it’s fictional after all.
It’s so hard to describe how this collection of short stories made me feel. I’m saying 90% of this [stuff] is completely repulsive—we’re talking a snot pie filled with ball sweat and beans—but every once in a while there’s a tiny glimpse of recognizable decency and honesty… and then it jumps right back to ball sweat and beans.
Rating: really liked it
This was my introduction to Bukowski. A friend loaned me this book after reading a short story I wrote, telling me that I would probably enjoy it.
As I read it, a strange feeling came over me. It was the feeling of excitement knowing that I was reading something brilliant mixed with the feeling that I got when I saw Hustler Magazine for the first time. I think it describes Bukowski's work perfectly. His words are both beautiful and debauched at the same time. Still one of my favorite books.
Rating: really liked it
I couldn't get into this book. I really liked Post Office but this one left me cold. I felt that the quality was patchy - a few of the stories I really liked, but some appeared to me to be dashed off at speed or written just to shock.
Rating: really liked it
i learned that even the most obstruct, vile, deepest tretches of a mans soul based on views of things you and i avoid yet confront reluctantly in our evryday lifes can be depicted as art.i began eating away at this book as a way to pass time while sittingg in a texas county jail. i had no idea what i was getting my self into, let alone who the fuck charles bukowski was. but it opened my eyes to the true beauty some beat poets have to offer.the way he includes himself into his stories of other men that keep you in a constant state of confusion as to whether he is talking about himself, another, or speaking through mere hypothetical situations he created to render himself clear of the ravished ambitions he once called his own. that being said i believe that buk incorperates himself (by using false names) into situations where he acts and speaks the way most of us amricans wish we could in the most average of situations we always seem to find ourselves in. by no means am i proud to say i can relate to this poet and frankly i could have happily gone along with the sad story written by some arrogant masicistic being they call god whom is the author to my life with out ever running into this sonofabitches book, but as freud said there are no accidents. (forgive me fo being so cliche) that being said i still to this day find my self craving (as i do all things that are bad for me) more of the incredibly enlightening yet disturbing literature written by charles bukowski.
