Sunday, September 25, 2011
As a young man I hovered around the ‘B’ section of Waterstones bookstore at Ledenhall market, city of London... The B section rarely disappointed. Burroughs, Burgess, Beckett. I trusted the Bs. Hovering around the section the name Bukowski kept interrupting me – there he was not far from Burroughs’s Naked Lunch, between Buglakov’s Master and the Margarita, and Burgess’s Malayan trilogy. I picked up the book Post Office, read the blurb, and put it back on the shelf. I knew he was bad news, cheap liquor, low-rent-rooming houses, bad women, pain. I knew all this instinctively. I knew that if I bought and read this mans books then there would be NO TURNING BACK. I did and there wasn’t. Bukowski became an obsession. The primary influence on my writing. The reason I drink too much. The failure of my first marriage. Why I spent my entire twenties changing address. The difference was Bukowski had America as a playground and I would have Thailand.