PulpBook - 1994
Nick Belane, a private detective, becomes involved in an unusual case when a mysterious client, who calls herself Lady Death, asks him to find the real Celine
Opening with the exotic Lady Death entering the gumshoe-writer's seedy office in pursuit of a writer named Celine, this novel demonstrates Bukowski's own brand of humour and realism, opening up a landscape of seamy Los Angeles.
The late poet, novelist, and (spare the expression) man of letters, Charles Bukowski, is said to have left many books-worth of material in the can (so to speak), but this characteristically gritty piece of Bukowskiana is no patchwork, and was complete and in production at the time of his death. All of Bukowski will one day be essential to every collection and never cheaper than now. Annotation copyright Book News, Inc. Portland, Or.
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I got to thinking about solutions in life. People who solved things usually had lots of persistence and some good luck. If you persisted long enough, the good luck usually came. Most people couldn’t wait on the luck, though, so they quit. Not Belane. No candyass, he. Top flight. Game. A bit lazy, perhaps. But crafty. I pulled open the top right hand drawer, found the vodka and allowed myself a hit. A drink to victory. The winner writes the history books, is surrounded by the lovely virgins…
...This time Sanderson was dressed in a light purple suit. His taste in colors was freaky. I knew a babe like that once, she had a way of wearing those weird colors. Like we’d go out to a restaurant to eat and everybody would turn and look at her. Problem was, she wasn’t much to look at. Even with a hangover and a 3-day beard I looked better than she did...
Then she got up and walked out of there. I never saw an xyz like that in my life. Beyond concept. Beyond everything. Don’t bother me now. I want to think about it.
Tommy stepped toward me. I slipped the luger out of the drawer, pointed it towards Tommy’s gross immensity. “Hold it, Thomas, or you’ll be spouting more red than the jerseys of the Stanford football team!”
I’d lost my kick. Existence was not only absurd, it was plain hard work. Think of how many times you put on your underwear in a lifetime. It was appalling, it was disgusting, it was stupid.
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