Deformation Of Character Letter

Now, barely a few days left loose to reach our boards adaptation of "Factotum" (one of the most interesting novels and corrosive of the last century), I am thinking back to the figure of Bukowski.
I mean, back to the figure of a naked woman in bed, pretty girls in line at the stops of lust, sex, hot, drinks, bad awakenings and literature above all else. William Burroughs shot his wife's head looking for literature, Jack Kerouac fucked up ink-stained liver, Dostoevsky trying to smile in front of a firing squad that he would give the best texts of Russian literature. She said the old Jean Paul Sartre , "literature, or is everything, or nothing at all." Death, walking in their own literature Bukowska i (it was a main character in this strange Martian called "Pulp", his latest novel), the nihilistic complicity with the brightness of the bottles from the bars of Los Angeles.
Thank God for Jean Luc Godard never failed to film the screenplay for Barfly (Bukowski himself was drunk, indifferent, while French director pedantic about the glory of graduates remains alphanumeric or May 68) , and thank God that in all his writings published Anagram prose and little by little, some poems to fall down again in his hands. Charles Bukowski, which was not the greatest writer of the twentieth century but perhaps one of the most beloved, most idolized. There is something sacred about the American author, something of philosophical reflection.
Children intellectuals of my generation learned to fuck and get drunk with Bukowski, Henry Miller because he had lost his head, Ginsberg was a cosmic homosexual we are not talking about short skirts, Kesey failed the acid test last as Tom Wolfe put him face Tom Hanks on screen. Whenever we had Bukowski, who was the author that we would have liked to be, and the unbearable reminder of the mediocrity that surrounds our jobs and even our thoughts. Who
been valuable, after all, to face the rest of life with a hangover, Vivaldi in the mini and a woman beaten on the payroll of desire. Who would have ever had. Who have been the Bukowski Europe would have needed, the type ugly and unfortunate that, although not like it, end up with three whores in a hotel room, writing on yellow wallpaper, driving cars and dilapidated corners knowing that the night always denied. Who could turn fear, loneliness and deception in literature, just how did old drunk American.
have to believe in something, after all.