It rained this morning, and heavy clouds darkened the day. I commuted by bus, reading Post Office, a novel written by Charles Bukowski, and quite a novel it is.
I started reading Bukowski some weeks ago, with a collection of his poems translated into Finnish, and then this novel. I didn't expect much, but this novel was quite an experience, combining the low and high in a rather original way.
(Posting title is from the poem So You Want To Be A Writer by Charles Bukowski.)
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Veiled Rubble
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