Produktdetaljer
Biografisk notat
Charles Bukowski is one of America's best-known contemporary writers of poetry and prose and, many would claim, its most influential and imitated poet. He was born in 1920 in Andernach, Germany, to an American soldier father and a German mother, and brought to the United States at the age of two. He was raised in Los Angeles and lived there for over fifty years. He died in San Pedro, California, on March 9, 1994, at the age of seventy-three, shortly after completing his last novel, Pulp.“We all knew Bukowski was a tough guy, but who would have guessed that even the grave could not shut him up? The People Look Like Flowers At Last shows him at his scruffy, hard-hitting, tender-hearted best. They say this is his final posthumous book, but don’t bet on it.” — Billy Collins, former Poet Laureate
“The purportedly “fifth and final” posthumous collection of Bukowski’s inimitable poetry is. . . amazingly funny, mordant, rueful, raffish, sad, resigned; all attest as firm a dedication to the lower case as that of e. e. cummings. Standouts? Turn to “the dwarf with a punch” in section 1; the epical “Rimbaud be damned” in section 2; “I never bring my wife,” with its sublime apothegm about the lonely, in section 4. Bet you’ll then read the rest.” — Booklist
"The People Look Like Flowers At Last is the final posthumous Bukowski collection. . . and it is extraordinary.” — Buffalo News
“if you read this after I am dead
It means I made it”
-“The Creation Coffin”
The People Look like Flowers at Last is the last of five collections of never-before published poetry from the late great Dirty Old Man, Charles Bukowski.
the gas line is leaking, the bird is gone from the
cage, the skyline is dotted with vultures;
Benny finally got off the stuff and Betty now has a job
as a waitress; and
the chimney sweep was quite delicate as he
giggled up through the
soot.
I walked miles through the city and recognized
nothing as a giant claw ate at my
stomach while the inside of my head felt
airy as if I was about to go
mad.
it’s not so much that nothing means
anything but more that it keeps meaning
nothing,
there’s no release, just gurus and self-
appointed gods and hucksters.
the more people say, the less there is to say.
even the best books are dry sawdust.
—from "fingernails; nostrils; shoelaces"