Someone reminded me of my love of Charles Bukowski.

Sometimes I feel it’s a bit odd that I love his work so much; it’s misogynistic and depressing and you can pretty near smell the dirty pants and liquor when you read him. But that’s just the surface impression. I actually love that he’s honest and doesn’t seem like he could be anything but, and he’s blunt and damaged, oh fuck how he’s damaged and the misogyny is more like a need for love but an inability to really do anything proper with it and that would make anybody angry and resentful, and his writing has so little to do with my life yet everything to do with it at the same time he’s poetic in the most basic of ways… his simple words smash you over the head with their obvious perfection. You know I’m getting excited when I burst into run on sentence.

Read Ham on Rye if you’ve not read him before.