By Charles Bukowski
Black Sparrow Press
When I noticed, at my wedding reception, that someone was about to step on my dress, I said something bridely like “Oh, my dress!” to which my Grandmother replied “You’re never gonna wear it again.” (God, I love and miss her!) It is this kind of wisdom that I found in The Captain; the words of someone who has seen enough of life to know what is important and certainly what is not. I think people can read as many self-help books as they would like, but I do not believe it would help as much as an aging cynic’s views to truly see how silly they are. Some may say there was a morbid tone, but I don’t believe this to be true. It was honest and fearless. Bukowski was 71-72 years old in the period of these journal entries, wise in the knowledge he should have been dead years ago but also knowing death was not far away. It had been eleven or twelve years since I last read Bukowski, and then it was his writings from his earlier years. The stories and poems were wild and untamed, as was I. The Captain was still Bukowski, just in the calm of his life, as am I.
