查尔斯·布考斯基charles bukowski（1920-1994）：美国当代最为著名的作家之一，美国后现代主义诗歌大师，被尊为“新海明威”的“酒鬼诗人”。生前长住洛杉矶。著有诗集、小说数十种。对其作品的评价争议性很大，他一直为学院和学会所不容，却在民间拥有广泛的大众读者，在诗人和艺术家中也不乏狂热的追捧者和追随者。其作品曾被译成希腊文、法文、葡萄牙文、德文、瑞典文等，使其享誉欧洲。布氏作品于1995年由伊沙、老G首次译成中文，陆续在内地和宝岛、香港的报刊发表。

书籍简介

　　《布考斯基诗选》是这位极富传奇色彩的美国大师的首部中文译著，囊括了作者各个阶段的代表作和晚年颠峰之作百余首，是一部可赏性与可读性俱佳的诗集。布考斯基之于中国诗歌界来说，不是西方文学史的简单移植，而是在过去几年间对中国当代的先锋诗人和先锋诗歌已经产生过重要影响的一位诗人，这种影响目前还在继续升温。本书的出版既是为中国诗歌充满活力的“民间写作”提供了一个世界性的有力佐证，也是为有志于此的青年诗爱者提供了一个鲜活的典范，同时也是对国内翻译界长期以来重学院而轻民间、重学术而轻创造的一大纠偏，本书的翻译有着很强的“诗人性”。作为艾伦·金斯堡之后最具大众号召力的美国诗人，查尔斯·布考斯基首度以中文的面目问世，无疑是中国读者的幸事。


布考斯基生平及创作年表

1920：生于德国，其父是美国士兵，其母是有波兰血统的德国女郎。
1922：随父母迁居巴尔的摩，后移至帕沙第纳。
1933：因为挨打和受虐，学会喝酒。
1939：在洛杉矶市立大学读英文和新闻学。后离开洛杉矶，跑到纽约和费城，过着流浪的底层人的生活。
1939-1946：拼命写文章和小说，全遭《大西洋周刊》和《哈巴杂志》退回。激愤之下，喊出“给他们地狱，我成酒鬼。”
1955：胃溃疡大出血，几乎死在医院。病愈后继续写作，只写诗。
1960：第一本诗集《花朵、拳头和野兽的哀号》出版，  只有30页，发行了二百册。
1962：《诗与画》 《难以成功的诗献给一文不名的懒汉》《与猎物一起狂奔》出版。
1963：《我心遭劫》出版。 运气终于转好。下层社会报刊《洛城自由报》采用了他的稿子。其友约翰·马丁继续帮他出版书作，持续达数十年。
1965：《死亡手中的耶稣像》《院中金狗》《一个与兽同居的精神病人的供述》出版。
1966：《世上所有的肛门和我》出版。
1967：《布考斯基2》《窗帘在飘》出版。
1968：《恐怖的街痛苦的路》《从8楼的窗子跳下前写的诗》 出版。
1969： 给《急找》《花花公子》等色情杂志写文章和小说，以酒鬼硬汉姿态、粗俗的语言吸引大众。《老色鬼手记》 出版。
1969：《布考斯基集锦》《去日仿佛野马跃过山岗》出版。
1970：《消防站》出版。
1971：自美国联邦邮政局辞职，后以邮政局工作为内容，写作长篇小说《邮政局》，出版后在美国发行七万册，在欧洲发行五十万册。
1972：《嘲鸟祝我好运》《勃起，射精，暴露和原始疯狂行为的故事》《我和你偶尔的情诗》出版。
1973：《这时乐声响起》《无北之南》出版。
1974：《燃于水，溺于火：1955-1973诗选》出版。获旧金山某文艺团体颁发的诗歌奖，是其毕生极少的一次获奖。
1975：《非洲，巴黎， 希腊》《打杂者》出版 。
1976：《猩红》出版。
1977：《也许明天》《爱是一条来自地狱的狗：1974-1977的诗》出版。
1978：《女人》《你吻了莉丽》《我要带走它们》出版。
1979：《弹奏钢琴像打击乐器直至手指喋血》出版。
1981：《图尔尼弗地亚在摇晃》出版。
1982：《黑麦上的火腿》出版。
1983： 《带给我你的爱》《热水音乐》出版。
1984：《没生意》 出版。
1986：《如此孤独即生感觉》出版。
1987：好莱坞终被吸引，挑出头牌明星顿亚惠主演其作品改编的《酒吧苍蝇》。该电影因其真实的自传性故事，坦白的说话方式，获得了高票房的收入。评论界认为布氏打开了娱乐界的一个新领域，以硬汉姿态给甜蜜的幻梦一个“粗糙的吻”。
1988：《出租房之歌：早期诗集1946-1966 》出版。
1989：《好莱坞》出版。
1990：《古稀之年的酒鬼： 小说&诗》出版。
1991：传记名家查尔可米斯基写作并出版其传记，名为《洛杉矶一个难对付的家伙——布考斯基的生活》。
1992：《昨夜地球之诗》出版。
1993：《和猎物一起狂奔 ：一个叫布考斯基的读者》出版。《阳台上的尖叫：1960-1970书信集》出版。
1994：《果肉》出版。病逝于洛杉矶。

《Bluebird》

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

《Luck》

Once
we were young
at this
machine. . .
drinking
smoking
typing
it was a most
splendid
miraculous
time
still
is
only now
instead of
moving toward
time
it
moves toward
us
makes each word
drill
into the
paper
clear
fast
hard
feeding a
closing
space.


《My old man》

16 years old
during the depression
I'd come home drunk
and all my clothing-
shorts, shirts, stockings-
suitcase, and pages of
short stories
would be thrown out on the
front lawn and about the
street.
my mother would be
waiting behind a tree:
"Henry, Henry, don't
go in. . .he'll
kill you, he's read
your stories. . ."
"I can whip his
ass. . ."
"Henry, please take
this. . .and
find yourself a room."
but it worried him
that I might not
finish high school
so I'd be back
again.
one evening he walked in
with pages of
one of my short stories
(which I had never submitted
to him)
and he said, "this is
a great short story."
I said, "o.k.,"
and he handed it to me
and I read it.
it was a story about
a rich man
who had a fight with
his wife and had
gone out into the night
for a cup of coffee
and had observed
the waitress and the spoons
and forks and the
salt and pepper shakers
and the neon sign
in the window
and then had gone back
to his stable
to see and touch his
favorite horse
who then
kicked him in the head
and killed him.
somehow
the story held
meaning for him
though
when I had written it
I had no idea
of what I was
writing about.
so I told him,
"o.k., old man, you can have it."
and he took it
and walked out
and closed the door.
I guess that's
as close
as we ever got.

flavie？？？？？

吴达立？？？？

噢噢~~Flavie~Flavie~~~

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