John Martin of Black Sparrow Press was an important early champion of Charles Bukowski’s work. This letter was written the year after they struck their famous deal: as long as Bukowski would keep writing and stay away from menial labor jobs, Martin would not only publish him, but also provide a discrete monthly stipend for the late-blooming writer to live on.
[To John Martin]
[? April 1970]
meant to get these off yesterday, but 2 young guys by, and so there went a whole afternoon. they didn’t like Henry Miller, they didn’t like Pound, they liked Celine. then one of them handed me one of his things. I didn’t like it.
so I’m coming in late with the work, but everything has its meaning. with these 2, I learned, mainly, there isn’t any competition. one of them claimed you had to have connections to get published. I said that 2 things helped—talent and talent, the connections would take care of themselves. when I was young and it came back I threw it away. everybody thinks they are a genius; that’s why they aren’t.
when they left, after drinking my beer, or as they left, I said, “I have Henry Miller’s address if you want to drop by there.”
“that’s an insult,” they said.
with these young guys it’s always a pleasure to cut down the giants but the best way to cut them down is with your own work and I don’t mean the work of your jaws. if Henry Miller had walked into the room, they would have shit and fawned all over him. the only reason they come to me is that I am the Image of the Loser, the Man who doesn’t care, the Man who didn’t quite make it, the man who will drink a beer with a bum. what they don’t realize is that I do care, would like to do my work, and have the kindness or the cowardice not to cuss them and send them on their way. unfortunately, people like something in me, they can’t let it go. I will simply have to work around it all and still do my work. my old theory while working ten to 12 hours nights and days in the factories and in the post office has always been, save what you can, don’t give in. the theory stands now; whether my work holds up depends upon what is left of me.
and so that’s kind of a bitch but that’s o.k. because I know when I am bitching I am all right.
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