By: Charles Bukowski
they called Céline a Nazi they called Pound a fascist they called Hamsun a Nazi and a fascist they put Dostoevsky in front of a firing squad and they shot Lorca gave Hemingway electric shock treatments (and you know he shot himself) and they ran Villon out of town (Paris) and Mayakovsky disillusioned with the regime and after a lover’s quarrel, well, he shot himself too. Chatterton took rat poison and it worked. and some say Malcom Lowry died choking on his own vomit while drunk. Crane went the way of the boat propellor or the sharks. Harry Crosby’s sun was black. Berryman preferred the bridge. Plath didnt light the oven. Seneca cut his wrists in the bathtub (it’s best that way: in warm water). Thomas and Behan drank themselves to death and there are many others. and you want to be a writer? it’s that kind of war: creation kills, many go mad, some lose their way and can’t do it anymore. a few make it to old age. a few make money. some starve (like Vallejo). it’s that kind of war: casualties everywhere. all right, go ahead do it but when they sandbag you from the blind side don’t come to me with your regrets. now I’m going to smoke a cigarette in the bathtub and then I’m going to sleep.
You can find this poem in — What Matters Most Is How Well You Walk Through The Fire.