By Charles Bukowski
Bukowski est un écrivain considérable. Un homme en marche. Un homme étincelant. Avec l'énergie du désespoir, il secoue comme un vieux sac notre civilisation fin XXè siècle. Et ce qui tombe n'est pas joli, joli. C'est brutal. Claire Gallois, Le Figaro Toutes les histoires de Bukowski sont aussi vraies qu'infectes et, en cela, font honneur à l. a. littérature : il raconte ce que les autres enjolivent et dissimulent. Le sexisme, l. a. misère du quotidien, l. a. violence et les sentiments de ceux qui se curent le nez. Et c'est pour ça qu'il gêne : il parle à tout le monde. Jean-François Bizot Les Contes de l. a. folie ordinaire ont été portés à l'écran par Marco Ferreri avec Ben Gazzara et Ornella Mutti.
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Extra info for Contes De La Folie Ordinaire
I gathered up the pages and handed them to him, not daring to meet his gaze. Don Basilio sat down at the next table and turned on the lamp. His eyes skimmed the text, betraying no emotion. Then he rested his cigar on the end of the table for a moment, glared at me, and read out the first line: Night falls on the city and the streets carry the scent of gunpowder like the breath of a curse. Don Basilio looked at me out of the corner of his eye and I hid behind a smile that didn’t leave a single tooth uncovered.
He then hugged me until there was no strength left in his arms and lay down, stretched out on the floor with the hypodermic needle still stuck in his skin. I pulled out the needle and covered him with a blanket. After that, he began to lock himself in. We lived in a small attic suspended over the building site of the new auditorium, the Palau de la Música. It was a cold, narrow place in which wind and humidity seemed to mock the walls. I used to sit on the tiny balcony with my legs dangling out, watching people pass by and gazing at the battlement of weird sculptures and columns that was growing on the other side of the street.
And you’ll be right to do so, because you’re not a journalist and you never will be. But you’re not a crime novelist yet, even if you think you are. ” At that moment, my guard down, I was so overwhelmed by gratitude that I wanted to hug that great bulk of a man. Don Basilio, his fierce mask back in place, gave me a steely look and pointed toward the door. “No scenes, please. Close the door. ” … The following Monday, when I arrived at the editorial room ready to sit at my own desk for the very first time, I found a coarse gray envelope with a ribbon and my name on it in the same recognizable type that I had been typing out for years.