I never had much of a taste for Bukowski before this. I found this book rich in beauty, humor, and romance, made precious by their scarcity.
Many artists try to do what Bukowski has done here, and I believe they largely fail because their authors lack both style and empathy. Bukowski has earned his cynicism. The wage of cynicism is attention: attention to other human beings, and to the fact that this ugly world is upheld and perpetuated by their very sincere (though often dull, vapid, or cruel) intentions. The fact that such a heavy alcoholic could actually muster any vision of another human being through his fugue is what makes odd and miraculous.
Great review.
I'm not particularly familiar with the discourse surrounding Bukowski, but I see his alcoholism as an artificial constraint on his consciousness. Cioran, after giving up alcohol, coffee, and cigarettes, remarked that anxiety was the strongest stimulant available. What we commonly label as vices or disorders can, in the right hands, be transformed into fuel for creative expression. If consciousness itself is a form of suffering, then perhaps Bukowski did not create despite his alcoholism but, because of it. The addiction wasn't necessarily the source of his art, but it became inseparable from the conditions under which that art emerged.
David Choe has spoken at length about the relationship between art, pain, and trauma, arguing that meaningful creation often demands some form of suffering. What I find interesting about Choe is that, being filthy rich, he has little financial reason to continue creating. Whatever drives him now seems to stem either from vanity or from a will to create. If the former is true, then his suffering is optional--but I'd rather not speculate too much on someone else's inner life. Besides, Choe seems cool enough.
This is put so well:
“The addiction wasn't necessarily the source of his art, but it became inseparable from the conditions under which that art emerged.”
I think this book is a testament to that inextricability (is that a word), and in hindsight Bukowski’s alcoholism really is a “because” rather than a “despite” here.
I appreciate your thinking.