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Item Details
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| Heading: |
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| Author: |
Bukowski, Charles |
| Title: |
Two typed letters signed by Charles Bukowski with original drawings to author John William Corrington, both in July 1963 |
| Place: |
Los Angeles |
| Publisher: |
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| Date: |
1963 |
| Item # : |
168668 |
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| Sale Number |
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327 |
| Lot Number |
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10 |
| Sale Name |
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| The Edwin Blair Collection of Beat Literature, plus Modern Literature |
| Sale Date |
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03/09/2006 |
| Price realized |
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$ 4025 |
| (Includes 20% Buyer's Premium) |
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| Description: |
| With: 3-page letter, dated “Jewlie Fourth 1963” (postmarked July 5) with several inked figure drawings by Bukowski in and around the text of the first page; and a short inked holographic note by Bukowski on the second page. Reads: “big Paul [Corrington]: it is undoubtably on days might nights like this soapy beer nights with the Summer bugs beginning to take over and my gut beginning to take over dirty floor dirty mind warm beer weak firecrackers the essence of everything just about this empty match book cover on the table what the hell you mean, I am down again? Out today with 53,000 of them, fucking with a new system, fucking the daylight the mutes away, woman’s asses horses’ asses going buy bye by the sun light a sweating lemon twist or an arc light gone made with power. Every time I sat down in some new invention of shade some drivel of humanity would find me and ask me the speed rating of the 9 horse or the Shoe were on the 6, and how many days since the last out, how about works?…Nice to get the green dream stuff advance on your novel, it is a kind of an odd thing when somebody pays you for what you want to do; it’s like going to be with a quivering mess of nylon and panty and breast and red mouth like the dew-lipped rose of morning and ripping it apart to the great music and then having somebody walk up and give you a handful of bills for doing what you did.” Continues about Jon Webb and book, drinking and not wanting to be “used up by the world,” gambling at the horserace tracks, etc. “It has to come like a parade or rain or luck or maple leaf or a fine drunk whore wobbling lost on the corner on top of her lovely dizzy and spiked life, and I clutch the gain when I get it…the long hours of 43 yers staring at a ceiling wrinkling down to the last faint color of me pale pal grass. Ach, I’m down again! Outside a boy shots his tiny cap pistol to celebrate America. Whitman could celebrate himself. All I have is 3 tickets on the 9 horse, 13 ½ quart beer cans and a pack of smokes. And I sometimes think of the book Jon is working on down in New Orleans and I wonder who Charles Bukowski is. Am I Charles Bukowski? What is it? Pam, pop, pam!!! goes the kid. Jesus, this is no place to stop so close to the bottome…” and continues with a long poem that turns back into a letter. Mentions Pleasanton, California and more horseracing information and “…cider of the eye is the hardest drink of all, Buk” (signed). * 2-page letter, dated July 15, 1963 (postmarked July 16) with several holographic notes (in light blue ink) by Bukowski, plus a few drawings at the end. Begins: “Yah Willie: Don’t worry yourself (shitty-sick [inked by hand]) on the NORTHWEST REVIEW article, I understand, I hold to the savage side with the honor of my teeth. I know damn well I don’t wax the golden poetic and I don’t try to because I believe it to be essentially outside of life—like lace gloves for a coal-stoker…I like my sunlight and beer and cigars and occasional pussy just like any matador or prelim boy, but there’s still room for a good symphony written in 1700 or 1800 or the disgust-strike of sadness at seeing a cat crushed flat by wheels upon asphalt…”. Continues with horse betting, drinking, love, life, Jon Webb and more, all in beautiful Bukowski poetry language. And ends with poetry. Together, 2 letters (11x8½"); both with their original mailing envelopes, both addressed to Corrington c/o Dept. of English, Louisiana State University, Baton Rouge, from Bukowski’s Mariposa Ave., Los Angeles address. |
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| Condition: |
| Mild age and handling wear; else letters fine. |
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