I hear from people on the book, answer them, but without being too much of a prick I try to insert the idea that maybe the creation of ART could be more important than my writing letters to them—or anybody writing letters to them. Handholding won’t get it done. 4 walls can teach more about writing than any praise-mongering lying friend or person. I am not Hemingway but even not being Hemingway I never considered writing to Hemingway or asking him anything, or worse: telling him anything. I did, however, consider writing myself, and once or twice I did. maybe 3 times. I am a very powerful influence on myself. This happened in Philadelphia and I was not lonely. There is something wrong with me: I am never lonely. It could get that way. I could get doddy. The world can work on you, trick you. The traps. My man Jeffers spoke of this. Beware the g.d. traps…that trapped God

when he

walked on earth.

Those are some pretty good lines. If I can ever learn to write as well as Jeffers I will throw all the apples on my table out of the window and they can have me. [* * *]

[To Jon and Louise Webb]

January 10, 1964

[* * *] Don’t remember writing a long letter but if you got one, fine. Sometimes when there is plenty of beer and cigars and the electric light hits the white paper and the chopper chops and that whore downstairs doesn’t bang on my floor I go on and on, a little cracked, kind of hypnotic, smoke and cold beer and PAP PAP PAP PAP PAP, and this, too, is good for what is left of the soul. [* * *]

“Frances” is Frances Smith, who had recently become pregnant with Bukowski’s daughter, Marina.

[To Ann Bauman]

January 23, 1964

Frances says she will write in a couple of days.

Little here. New tenant downstairs knocks on her ceiling (my floor) when I type. This, of course, disturbs the thought context all to hell. Doesn’t she know that I am the great Charles Bukowski? the bitch!!

Cold here and the life force drags on within, dull, putrid, limping. The job is white light, heat and madness. But then, starvation is a bother, and with either course I feel the coward.

Blighted god damned roaring stinking world.

Cheer up, dear.

the works,

[Unknown Addressee]

January 28, 1964

You knock on my floor when I type within hours. Why in the hell don’t you keep your stupid t.v. set down at 10:30 tonight? I don’t complain to managers, but it seems to me that your outlook is very one-sided.

H. Bukowski

Apt. #303

[Reply to Above]

[Sir:

It is not my T.V. set you hear, I don’t have it loud at any time.

I was told you work from 5:30, but your machine is going day night and Sunday. It is like living beneath an arsenal.