Dear Chuck Bukowski

Dear Mr. Bukowski,

I doubt you’ll enjoy the ramblings of a high school senior--even though you often characterize your own writing as the ramblings of an old man--but bear with me, please. I believe dialogue between the artist and the consumer adds infinitely to the integrity of a piece of artwork. (Even if the artist is dead.)

(Especially if the artist is dead.)

I’m not going to flatter you with praise on your work. You know it’s good. More than good. I don’t quite understand beat poetry, the nuances and the process, but I can’t deny there’s something magical about reading it aloud. It almost sounds like it’s breathing, like it’s alive. But you know that already, I’m sure. I don’t believe you would publish a single page if you didn’t know; no, you have too much pride for that.

I didn’t know your work was controversial until a few weeks ago. I was talking to a friend about how I finally purchased one of your anthologies, and she rolled her eyes and said, “Oh, I hate him.”

I was surprised. “Why?” I asked. I hadn’t read enough to have my own opinion yet.

“Well, I don’t hate him, just--” she paused. She’s one of those people who don’t believe in grey areas. She needs to have an opinion, even if it’s an unqualified one. “People either love him or they hate him.”

I didn’t know what she meant until later. I’m often seduced by the power of beautiful writing, and I fell in love with the sound of you, loved the way the words lit a fire in my stomach and let smoke gather in the cavity of my chest, twining and dancing, all serpentine figures. It wasn’t until I read more that the weight of the firepit and the density of the smoke became too much.

You see, Mr. Bukowski, you’re just so pessimistic. Defeated. Narcissistic. It got tiring. I think you’re the epitome of the American author. You’re sad and old and drunk, and your sadness and oldness feeds your drunkness, and your drunkness feeds your sadness and oldness. It’s a vicious cycle. You’re like Hemingway and Fitzgerald and Steinbeck all rolled in one.

And maybe in a different time, you’d be my favorite. I’d relish in your self-righteous pity for the world, love the lazy languidness of your words. But now, in this world, at this age, I can’t bear to face more sadness, more pessimism, than what I already see. I don’t need you to aid me in my woes, Mr. Bukowski.

I’m not giving up on you yet. I’ll visit you again, in another time, in a different era. I’ll pick up Portions of a Wine-Stained Notebook and maybe I’ll have enough resilience to love it, to wrap myself in the morose, poetic smoke of it all.

But today, right now, I need some hope.

Sincerely,

Carolyne Im