upon reading an interview with a best-selling novelist in our metropolitan daily newspaper
he talks like he writes
and he has a face like a dove, untouched by
externals.
little shiver of horror runs through me as I read
about
his comfortable assured success.
am going to write an important novel next year,” he says.
next year?
skip some paragraphs
but the interview goes on for two and one-half pages
more.
it’s like milk spilled on a tablecloth, it’s as soothing as
talcum powder, it’s the bones of an eaten fish, it’s a damp
stain on a faded necktie, it’s a gathering hum.
this man is very fortunate that he is not standing
in line at a soup kitchen.
this man has no concept of failure because he is
paid so well for it.
am lying on the bed, reading.
drop the paper to the floor.
then I hear a sound.
is a small fly buzzing.
watch it flying, circling the room in an irregular
pattern.
life at last.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
