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Charles Bukowski

Post Office: A Novel

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“It began as a mistake.” By middle age, Henry Chinaski has lost more than twelve years of his life to the U.S. Postal Service. In a world where his three true, bitter pleasures are women, booze, and racetrack betting, he somehow drags his hangover out of bed every dawn to lug waterlogged mailbags up mud-soaked mountains, outsmart vicious guard dogs, and pray to survive the day-to-day trials of sadistic bosses and certifiable coworkers. This classic 1971 novel—the one that catapulted its author to national fame—is the perfect introduction to the grimly hysterical world of legendary writer, poet, and Dirty Old Man Charles Bukowski and his fictional alter ego, Chinaski.
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146 páginas impresas
Año de publicación
2009
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  • Thomas Campbellcompartió su opiniónhace 8 años
    🔮Profundo

  • Andre Franciscocompartió su opiniónhace 3 años
    🙈Ni fu ni fa

  • Deymi Carvajal Perezcompartió su opiniónhace 4 años
    👍Me gustó

Citas

  • spanisheyes112compartió una citahace 8 años
    I got into the door, said goodbye, turned on the radio, found a half-pint of scotch, drank that, laughing, feeling good, finally relaxed, free, burning my fingers with short cigar butts, then made it to the bed, made it to the edge, tripped, fell down, fell down across the mattress, slept, slept, slept …
    • • •
    In the morning it was morning and I was still alive.
    Maybe I’ll write a novel, I thought.
    And then I did.
  • fsagdicompartió una citahace 3 años
    11 years! I didn’t have a dime more in my pocket than when I had first walked in. 11 years. Although each night had been long, the years had gone fast. Perhaps it was the night work. Or doing the same thing over and over and over again. At least with The Stone I had never known what to expect. Here there weren’t any surprises. II years shot through the head. I had seen the job eat men up. They seemed to melt. There was Jimmy Potts of Dorsey Station. When I first came in, Jimmy had been a well-built guy in a white T shirt. Now he was gone. He put his seat as close to the floor as possible and braced himself from falling over with his feet. He was too tired to get a haircut and had worn the same pair of pants for 3 years. He changed shirts twice a week and he walked very slow. They had murdered him. He was 55. He had 7 years to go until retirement.
  • fsagdicompartió una citahace 3 años
    Thanks, Hector.”

    Hector? What the hell kind of name was that

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