They’re also, unquestionably, messed up - just like the protagonist of Women, Henry Chinaski, who pinballs from fling to fling, unable to be satisfied. They can be clever, sensitive, and creative. The bad dates with Trevor (and others) aside, Bukowski-reading men aren’t all bad. The moment I learned that, I knew I would have to read it too. He has a tattered copy of Women he read after a terrible breakup six years ago. My current partner has Bukowski cover art tattooed on his left bicep. I’ve become an advocate for these emerging voices, and haven’t read a book published before 1980 in about two years.īack then, my taste in literature - both what I sought out and what I avoided - was formed by infatuation more than my own preferences.īut I somehow cannot escape Bukowski’s pull. I read for only myself now, focusing exclusively on young female writers with a powerful story to tell. I was not confident in my own personality or opinions to hold the interest of my latest crush, so I read his favorite authors so he could tell me about them - or, in the case of Trevor and Bukowski, spurned them out of spite. In short, back then, my taste in literature - both what I sought out and what I avoided - was formed by infatuation more than my own preferences. I saw Trevor’s smug face every time I put a copy of Ham on Rye back on the shelf, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise that someone who calls herself a writer has never read Bukowski’s seminal novel. Thanks to him, I associated Bukowski with condescension, infidelity, and a sheer unwillingness to sexually satisfy a woman. We didn’t date for long, and things didn’t end well. But Trevor left an especially bad taste in my mouth. I scoured dating profiles, and the same name kept popping up - Charles Bukowski. I spent my first year in New York City going on a lot of dates. Until I left school, and really until I met my current partner a year and a half after that, I aligned my taste (in literature, in music, in whatever I could) with the sensitive young men who caught my (always looking) eye. But the real reason I never touched his work at that age? No man I wanted to sleep with thought I should. None of my syllabi included him, as I focused my coursework on Indian and South Asian writers, and later ultra-contemporary short stories. Nor did I ever reach for Bukowski in college. I focused instead on the Daves - Dave Eggers, David Foster Wallace, and David Sedaris - all because my favorite teacher, a quirky and energetic man, mentioned those writers were among his favorites. I avoided Bukowski in high school without even trying, simply because I had no male authority guiding me to his work. When I began working as a bookseller almost two and a half years ago, I frequently said to no one in particular as I shelved books in the poetry and fiction sections, “I have a thousand and one reasons I’ll never read Bukowski, and they’re all named Trevor.” In Late to the Party, we ask writers to read a seminal author who has somehow passed them by. We’re almost there! Please give what you can today. We’ve set a goal of raising $10,000 by the end of June. Electric Literature recently launched a new creative nonfiction program, and received 500 submissions in just 36 hours! Now we need your help to grow our team, carefully and efficiently review submitted work, and further establish EL as a home for artful and urgent nonfiction.
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