By Charles Bukowski
A spouse to On Writing and On Cats: A uncooked and delicate poetry assortment that captures the soiled outdated guy of yankee letters at his fiercest and so much susceptible, on a subject matter that hits domestic with all of us.
Charles Bukowski used to be a guy of severe feelings, anyone an editor as soon as known as a “passionate madman.” In On Love, we see Bukowski reckoning with the issues and exaltations of affection, lust, and hope. Alternating among tricky and delicate, delicate and gritty, Bukowski lays naked the myriad points of love—its selfishness and its narcissism, its randomness, its secret and its distress, and, finally, its actual joyfulness, persistence, and redemptive power.
Bukowski is outstanding on love—often a laugh, occasionally playful, and fleetingly candy. On Love deals deep perception into Bukowski the fellow and the artist; even if writing approximately his daughter, his lover, his pals, or his paintings, he's piercingly sincere and poignantly reflective, utilizing love as a prism to determine the realm in all its good looks and cruelty, and his personal fragile position in it. “My love is a hummingbird sitting that quiet second at the bough,” he writes, “as an analogous cat crouches.”
Brutally sincere, flecked with humor and pathos, On Love finds Bukowski at his such a lot candid and affecting.