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The Pleasures of the Damned: Poems, 1951-1993

The Pleasures of the Damned: Poems, 1951-1993 [Kindle Edition]

Charles Bukowski
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From Publishers Weekly

Starred Review. Bukowski's chatty free verse (and fiction) about disappointment, drunkenness, racetracks, flophouses, lust, sexual failure, poverty and late-life success amassed an enormous following by the time of his death at age 73 in 1994. Billed as the last book with new Bukowski poems in it, this hefty collection also culls from his prior books, and it is all of a piece: the warnings about lost potency, the ironic takes on ailments of mind and body, the comradeship with everyone down at the heels, down on his luck, or down to his last shot of booze. Bukowski's best poems have an exaggerated, B-movie black-and-white aura about them. One new poem warns that/ nothing is wasted:/ either that/ or/ it all is. In another, hell is only what we/ create,/ smoking these cigarettes,/ waiting here,/ wondering here. Near the front of the volume comes a page-and-a-half-long verse manifesto, a poem is a city, that might describe what Bukowski could do: a poem is a city filled with streets and sewers, it begins, filled with saints, heroes, beggars, madmen... banality and booze, and yet a poem is the world. (Nov.)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.


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


  • Format: Kindle Edition
  • Dateigröße: 298 KB
  • Seitenzahl der Print-Ausgabe: 529 Seiten
  • ISBN-Quelle für Seitenzahl: 1847675492
  • Verlag: HarperCollins e-books (13. Oktober 2009)
  • Verkauf durch: Amazon Media EU S.à r.l.
  • Sprache: Englisch
  • ASIN: B000W9672O
  • Text-to-Speech (Vorlesemodus): Aktiviert
  • X-Ray:
  • Durchschnittliche Kundenbewertung: 5.0 von 5 Sternen  Alle Rezensionen anzeigen (1 Kundenrezension)
  • Amazon Bestseller-Rang: #130.023 Bezahlt in Kindle-Shop (Siehe Top 100 Bezahlt in Kindle-Shop)

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Mehr über den Autor

Als Charles Bukowski am 9. März 1994 in Los Angeles starb, hinterließ er Gedichte, Short Storys, mehrere Romane, ein Drehbuch und unzählige Briefe. Er wurde 1920 im rheinland-pfälzischen Andernach als Sohn eines GI und einer Deutschen geboren. 1923 zog die Familie nach Baltimore/USA. Vom prügelnden Vater drangsaliert und von Akne gequält, flüchtete sich der Jugendliche in die Welt der Literatur. Sein Journalistik-Studium brach er ab, zog kreuz und quer durch die USA und hielt sich mit allerlei Jobs über Wasser. In der Folgezeit wurden in Literaturzeitschriften Texte und Gedichte Bukowskis publiziert, ganze Gedichtbände entstanden. Sein erster Roman "Post Office" ("Der Mann mit der Ledertasche") erschien 1970, gleichzeitig kamen in deutscher Sprache die "Aufzeichnungen eines Außenseiters" heraus.

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5.0 von 5 Sternen Auswahl der besten Gedichte 8. Juni 2009
Die Auswahl der Gedichte des großen us-Dichters Charles Bukowski in diesem Band kann als sehr gelungen bezeichnet werden. Für Kenner seines Werkes ist die Lektüre ein Genuss - auch und gerade, wenn man bisher nur deutsche Übersetzungen kannte. Sehr empfehelnswert!
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Die hilfreichsten Kundenrezensionen auf (beta) 4.5 von 5 Sternen  31 Rezensionen
70 von 74 Kunden fanden die folgende Rezension hilfreich
2.0 von 5 Sternen Disappointing 21. September 2008
Von Zachary T. Ciulla - Veröffentlicht auf
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.
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5.0 von 5 Sternen "I Have Been Alone But Seldom Lonely" 20. Dezember 2007
Von H. F. Corbin - Veröffentlicht auf
Format:Taschenbuch|Verifizierter Kauf
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.
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5.0 von 5 Sternen Well Worth a Read 14. November 2007
Von kevin griffith - Veröffentlicht auf
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.
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4.0 von 5 Sternen Good, but definitely not definitve 12. Oktober 2010
Von Mark Weisinger - Veröffentlicht auf
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 von 4 Kunden fanden die folgende Rezension hilfreich
5.0 von 5 Sternen i AM NOT DISAPPOINTED 20. November 2011
Von G. Charles Steiner - Veröffentlicht auf
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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they say that nothing is wasted: either that or it all is. &quote;
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its a lonely world of frightened people, just as it has always been. &quote;
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this man has no concept of failure because he is paid so well for it. &quote;
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