Latest Bukowski Articles
Could it be the meaning of life is simply to live it, to accept it, and revel in its ambiguity? Is life an end in itself? If so, is seeking meaning, purpose and direction self defeating?
Because here’s the thing: as often as writers come bundled with bad habits and insecurities, and as maladaptive as these things are in the real world—the bedroom is not the real world. And the compulsions that make writers so miserable on a day-to-day basis are the same ones that make them ideal at last call.