Biography & Autobiography Literary
The Buk Book
Musings on Charles Bukowski
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Paperback / softback
- ISBN
- 9781550222951
- Publish Date
- Mar 1997
- List Price
- $12.95
Classroom Resources
Where to buy it
Description
This book offers a unique look at the phenomenon of Charles Bukowski, the battered and scarred postal clerk, odd-jobs man, and lowly factotum who became the best-known "underground" writer in the English language. His workraw, crude, heartbreaking, and hilarioushas inspired imitators, emulators, sycophants, and detractors. This book chronicles the man, the myth, and his work.
About the authors
Always in search of original characters and experiences, Jim Christy is a literary vagabond with few peers. He was once described by George Woodcock as “one of the last unpurged North American anarchistic romantics.” His publisher has called him a hip Indiana Jones; one reviewer credited him with a “Gary Cooper-like presence.” His buddies have included hobos, jazz musicians, boxers, and non-academic writers such as Charles Bukowski, Peter Trower and Joe Ferone. “I never dismiss another’s story out of hand,” he writes, “no matter what it’s about or how outrageous it may seem.” Christy’s often wry reminiscences of his travels, trysts and trials are fuelled by a hard-won pride. A gardener, a sculptor and a spoken word performer with a jazz/blues ensemble, Christy has been seen in film and television productions, usually in non-speaking roles as a thug or a gangster.
Editorial Reviews
“A comic, sad, absorbing story that throws a fresh, clear light on the hard-living, crater-faced writer who became a role-model for the bad behaviour of a generation. No overgloss here: this is a warts-and-all story, simply and compellingly told.” —Vancouver Sun
“A brisk and spirited toast to the 'dirty old man' of American letters.” —Vancouver magazine
“Vancouver's eclectic but always engaging Jim Christy serves up a raw, no-blinkers tribute. . . . The book's back cover bumph is, for once, spot-on: Christy cuts through all the crap.” —Toronto Star