16 min
Charles Bukowski - You Get So Alone At Times That It Just Makes Sense Radio of Resistance
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- Books
So, within the week that I had been gone, the world had been on fire. Not that I had anything to do with it, because I believe I will never have that big of importance on anything, anyone, or any matter, really.
No. It’s never one person. It’s all of us.
- Radio of Resistances -
In this episode, we will have a short discussion on the infamous poet that my professor loves to hate. Indeed, many questioned his verses, his unusual line breaks, his word choices. Some, to this day, still questions his life choices. Is he a symbol of utter misogyny? Is he a monument of male privileges?
To me, I see him as nothing more than an erect statue of self-hatred and a life-hater. He is simply yet another one of us who crawls too far down the rabbit hole of the constant existentialism crisis. The self-hatred and self-destructive tendencies within him mount as high as Mt. Everest. They pour out at every word and every period that he fails to put down. As Hemingway once said about the art of writing, Charles Bukowski forces himself to sit at the typewriter every day and bleed. The blood of human solitude, of constant repetition, of living just for the sake of dying.
I don't know much about my professor, but all I get from finishing the poetry collection is that I don't wish being a Charles Bukowski on anyone, even the worst of my enemies.
So, within the week that I had been gone, the world had been on fire. Not that I had anything to do with it, because I believe I will never have that big of importance on anything, anyone, or any matter, really.
No. It’s never one person. It’s all of us.
- Radio of Resistances -
In this episode, we will have a short discussion on the infamous poet that my professor loves to hate. Indeed, many questioned his verses, his unusual line breaks, his word choices. Some, to this day, still questions his life choices. Is he a symbol of utter misogyny? Is he a monument of male privileges?
To me, I see him as nothing more than an erect statue of self-hatred and a life-hater. He is simply yet another one of us who crawls too far down the rabbit hole of the constant existentialism crisis. The self-hatred and self-destructive tendencies within him mount as high as Mt. Everest. They pour out at every word and every period that he fails to put down. As Hemingway once said about the art of writing, Charles Bukowski forces himself to sit at the typewriter every day and bleed. The blood of human solitude, of constant repetition, of living just for the sake of dying.
I don't know much about my professor, but all I get from finishing the poetry collection is that I don't wish being a Charles Bukowski on anyone, even the worst of my enemies.
16 min