The article, The senseless, tragic rape of Charles Bukowski’s ghost by John Martin’s Black Sparrow Press tells the story (read that first if you haven’t already), but for the curious there is an interesting bit of back-story.
In the 1990s I ran an artists/writers/photography site called smog.net, and it had a Bukowski section. The primary tool on the site was a works database. A pretty comprehensive resource (for its time), and a valuable tool for anyone who was researching – or simply curious about – Bukowski’s mountain of work.
Someone was talking about paper cutters today, and it brought back some unpleasant memories. For most of my life I worked at jobs that were dirty, difficult and dangerous.
I’m in the midst of a seemingly never ending task. A place I often find myself.
What makes my feeble mind encounter a ridiculous mound of sorting, scanning, building, fixing and otherwise general tedium and say, “There’s a great use of your time!”
If this stuff was really important, wouldn’t someone else have done it already?