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The Pleasures of the Damned: Poems, 1951-1993 [Anglais] [Broché]

Charles Bukowski
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Description de l'ouvrage

2 décembre 2008

To his legions of fans, Charles Bukowski was—and remains—the quintessential counterculture icon. A hard-drinking wild man of literature and a stubborn outsider to the poetry world, he wrote unflinchingly about booze, work, and women, in raw, street-tough poems whose truth has struck a chord with generations of readers.

Edited by John Martin, the legendary publisher of Black Sparrow Press and a close friend of Bukowski's, The Pleasures of the Damned is a selection of the best works from Bukowski's long poetic career, including the last of his never-before-collected poems. Celebrating the full range of the poet's extra-ordinary and surprising sensibility, and his uncompromising linguistic brilliance, these poems cover a rich lifetime of experiences and speak to Bukowski's "immense intelligence, the caring heart that saw through the sham of our pretenses and had pity on our human condition" (The New York Quarterly). The Pleasures of the Damned is an astonishing poetic treasure trove, essential reading for both longtime fans and those just discovering this unique and legendary American voice.


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The Pleasures of the Damned: Poems, 1951-1993 + The Last Night of the Earth Poems + Love is a Dog From Hell
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Descriptions du produit

Revue de presse

“This long and well-edited collection is likely to stand as the definitive volume of Bukowski’s poems.” (New York Times Book Review)

Biographie de l'auteur

Charles Bukowsk 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 three. He was raised in Los Angeles and lived there for fifty years. He published his first story in 1944 when he was twenty-four and began writing poetry at the age of thirty-five. He died in San Pedro, California, on March 9, 1994, at the age of seventy-three, shortly after completing his last novel, Pulp.


Détails sur le produit

  • Broché: 576 pages
  • Editeur : Ecco (2 décembre 2008)
  • Langue : Anglais
  • ISBN-10: 0061228443
  • ISBN-13: 978-0061228445
  • Dimensions du produit: 22,9 x 15 x 3 cm
  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 5.0 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (1 commentaire client)
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: 45.637 en Livres anglais et étrangers (Voir les 100 premiers en Livres anglais et étrangers)
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1 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 I have no words to describe this book! 24 juillet 2012
Par Gaelicia
Format:Broché|Achat vérifié
I was really blown away after reading the first pages. Bukowski is an artist, the perfect epitome of the tortured poet in his garret. Except that Bukowski drank a lot and lived his life to the full with all the 'filth' it brought. And to me, it is precisely that 'filth' which makes his works so intriguing and so strikingly evocative of life: be it ugly or pretty.
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Amazon.com: 4.5 étoiles sur 5  31 commentaires
72 internautes sur 76 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
2.0 étoiles sur 5 Disappointing 21 septembre 2008
Par Zachary T. Ciulla - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Broché
For a guy who's published as many books of poetry as Bukowski has, a large book of selected poems sounds like an excellent idea: a "greatest hits" type collection for casual fans to buy; a single place to get all his best poems. And this book could have been that, save the editing. First of all, over half of the poems selected were published after Bukowski died. They obviously were not what he considered to be his strongest works, they were leftovers. I understand that he had a lot of good leftover poems, but this book really overdoes it. The worst of these poems are the leftover leftovers, poems making their debut in this book (published in 2007). What the hell are poems like that doing in a collection that's supposed to represent his most accomplished and proven work? Secondly, there's absolutely no discernible pattern to the way these poems are arranged. No dates are given, and no attempt at chronology has been made, as if to imply that Bukowski's writing never had any kind of evolution over time. If you research the poems, you can actually spot places where this book jumps multiple decades just from one poem to the next, which makes it awkward to try to read it in order. And even if you don't care about author's intent or dates or sequence, and you just want a good book of poems, I think this book still fails. There are a lot of weak poems in this book, and I think the editor took advantage of the fact that he had complete free range of probably almost every poem Bukowski ever wrote and used it to try to redefine Bukowski as a different type of poet than he was reputed as during his life. And for what purpose, just because he could? This is the same guy who's been reading Bukowski's poems for years, he was probably sick of the old ones and more excited about the posthumous poems he discovered and published in recent years. New readers of Bukowski, tempted by the "selected poems" label, will be unfairly subjected to his personal bias. That isn't to say that there aren't good poems in this book, it just could have been a lot better.
28 internautes sur 30 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 "I Have Been Alone But Seldom Lonely" 20 décembre 2007
Par H. F. Corbin - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Broché|Achat vérifié
THE PLEASURES OF THE DAMNED is a collection of Charles Bukowski's poems, 548 pages of them, many of them from earlier volumes of poetry, some of them never before published. For anyone familiar with Bukowski, there are few if any surprises here, rather a healthy sampling of this iconoclast's poetry. So very autobiographical, many of these poems are about the things Bukowski loved: the races, cats (you can learn from them), booze, poetry (he calls himself a poetry junkie), Wagner, sex (like Mahler, you do not rush it), some women. He can write a paean to a lover in "The Shower" but then say in another poem that American women, as opposed to Japanese women, "will kill you like they tear a lampshade." He is not reticent in writing about people and things he hates as well: some writers, especially Hemingway, whom he describes as "just a drunk"-- the irony is that in "a clean, well-lighted place," his description of Hemingway's use of his literary reputation to reel women in "one at a time" sounds like Bukowski himself-- critics, mindless work. (He pictures workers trapped in jobs that go nowhere as having "goldfish security.)

Nothing was immune from Bukowski's pen. Apparently he could write about any subject. There are poems here on the killing of elephants in Vietnam, a grammar school bully remembered, the ignorance of youth, a trip to the doctor, picturing himself in a nursing home, a conversation with death, an old car ("a poor man's miracle"), the abuse that both he and his mother suffered at the hands of his father (his mother had "the saddest smile I ever knew"), the homeless, the old, poor, sick and dying, throwing a radio out a window, etc., etc.

No one would say that Bukowski wrote "pretty" poems. On the other hand, we cannot deny that many of them go straight to the bone. In "eating my senior citizen's dinner at the Sizzler" (what a horrendous image) markers in modern cemeteries are "flat on the ground, it's much more pleasant for passing traffic." His world is inhabited by a sixty-five-year-old man with cancer who kills his sixty-six-year-old wife who has Alzheimer's and then kills himself and a house that is sad because it is inhabited with people who have mindless, dead-end jobs. For many of the people Bukowski writes about, "it's a lonely world/of frightened people,/just as it has always/been." On the other hand, in the poem entitled "mind and heart" (p. 523), he acknowledges that we are all alone, "forever alone" but goes on to say that "I have been alone but seldom lonely."

Reading Bukowski reminds you of Walt Whitman and Allen Ginsberg--although he certainly is not derivative of any other writer-- but a case can be made that he is a lot closer in his mood and world view to some of the darker poems of both Robert Frost and Emily Dickinson than he probably would have acknowledged. There is a place in the parade of poets for anyone who speaks the truth: the Robert Frosts, the Emily Dickinsons, the Donald Halls, the Edwin Arlington Robinsons along with the Charles Bukowskis.
35 internautes sur 40 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Well Worth a Read 14 novembre 2007
Par k - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Broché
Although I own almost every book Buk has written, I thoroughly enjoyed this collection, expertly edited by John Martin. Martin has selected some of Buk's most provocative and surreal work and arranged it so that it still sounds fresh and vital, even to the most devoted fan. My appreciation for Bukowski's work had dwindled somewhat after the incessant posthumous collections, but Martin gives this prolific writer what he really needed lately: a good editing. Thanks.
9 internautes sur 9 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
4.0 étoiles sur 5 Good, but definitely not definitve 12 octobre 2010
Par Mark Weisinger - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Broché
Let me start off by saying that this is a mostly satisfying collection of Bukowski's poetry. There are a few slow spots here and there, but I strongly disagree with the reviewer who said that he could go for a hundred pages without finding a worthwhile poem; that's gross hyperbole. Overall the quality is pretty strong, certainly stronger than the average Bukowski book (excepting The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills; Love Is a Dog From Hell; Burning In Water, Drowning In Flame; War All the Time; and What Matters Most Is How Well You Walk Through Fire).

Most of Bukowski's books, especially the majority of the posthumous collections, are like garage sales - you dig through a dozen dusty stacks of crap to find one or two jewels worth keeping. But this one has a pretty good hit to miss ratio, although it is worth noting that most of the duds are posthumously published (or previously uncollected) poems. That said, another reviewer mentioned that the book was missing the poems "Love Poem to a Stripper", "To the Whore that took my Poems", and "The Beats." I would add to that "The Blackbirds Are Rough Today," "Consummation of Grief," and especially "I Met a Genius." Now, if you're new to Bukowski and you think that I'm just angry because some of my personal favorites are missing, go to Google and look up "Bukowski poetry," find a random website, and look for these poems. They're always there at any site you visit. That's because they're canon. How John Martin, the editor of this book, could miss these poems is beyond me. He obviously didn't check fanzines or conduct surveys, otherwise he wouldn't have overlooked such classics.

Now, if you've never read Bukowski before, and you're looking for a good collection, this is still probably the best place to start, but just be warned that it's somewhat uneven and incomplete. If you're a music fan, here's another analogy for you: You know that greatest hits collection by your favorite band that substitutes a couple of odd demos, live versions and b-sides for a few of your favorite songs? It's kind of like that - frustrating, but it's still better than most of the group's albums. So, if you're looking for one collection to replace the 10-20 Bukowski books sitting on your shelf, you may have to keep waiting for awhile. But if you're looking for a book that has the majority of Bukowski's greatest hits with a few stray b-sides thrown in, you could do a lot worse.
4 internautes sur 4 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 i AM NOT DISAPPOINTED 20 novembre 2011
Par G. Charles Steiner - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Broché
To get the negations out of the way quickly, there are only two things really wrong with this collection of poems by Charles Bukowski. The title poem "The Pleasures of the Damned" is not a very strong poem and doesn't deserve to receive the titled heading for the book -- it's also a very short and obscure poem -- and the collection contains one very bad, outrageously vile poem that ought not to have been allowed into the collection: I am referring to "the colored birds" poem on pages 263 and 264. This poem celebrates wife-beating as the absolute expression of the essence of manhood or what it is to be a real man.

While Bukowski does not directly reveal his penchant for violence toward women, it nonetheless has been documented on video. Giving this kind of braggadocio and false bravado any kind of respect is the equivalent of giving honor to President Obama's peace prize even while he continues to murder hundreds of thousands of men and women. Finding this poem midway through the collection really did give me pause, the same kind of pause Bukowski otherwise lectures about in a beautiful poem about authenticity and selfhood entitled "area of pause" on page 434.

So many of the poems contain psychologically astute portraits of people, sardonic and sometimes cynical humor, situational stories, confessional poetry, and juicy bits of wisdom woven through many of the poems in this collection. Besides catching a glimpse into Charles Bukowski's reading and literary preferences (John Fante, Upton Sincair, Hemingway, and even Schopenhauer) in many poems, the prospective poetaster will also find his very last poems in this collection, his unsentimental poems about his own death and dying.

I haven't been able thus far to read or reread "the crunch" poem without choking up at the lines "people are not good to each other. people are not good to each other. people are not good to each other."

It took me several weeks to read this collection because I wanted to savor their impression and meaning over time and give myself time to reread the ones I suspected were going to be my favorites. I think if you rush through this collection, looking only for entertainment, you deserve to be disappointed. While Bukowski does write in plain and simple English, there are pauses, silences, deliberate lacunae in his poems that are deeper than the words he used with which to write the poems and he knew them and what he was doing with them. I will now call him the American Mallarme of the street.
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