It’s virtually impossible to faithfully reproduce Bukowski’s letters as a large number of them were profusely decorated with drawings and doodles. Similarly, all the 1945–1954 correspondence was handwritten—coincidentally enough, it was Bukowski’s infamous ten-year drunk, when he misleadingly said he didn’t write at all, as if all the handwritten material was forgettable—and it cannot be properly reproduced here. However, some distinctive letters have been reprinted in facsimile so that they can be appreciated as intended by Bukowski.

      To further preserve Bukowski’s peculiar letter writing, editorial changes have been kept to a minimum. While Bukowski’s punctuation was quite accurate, his spelling was whimsical at best, and he admitted as much. In this collection, unintended typos have been silently corrected, while deliberate typos have been kept in an attempt to preserve his voice as much as possible. Likewise, salutations and closings, which were largely similar, have been omitted. Bukowski was a prolific correspondent, and his letters were usually long, discussing topics unrelated to the art of writing. Editorial omissions are then represented by [ . . . ]. Editorial notes in the text also appear in brackets. Bukowski used ALL CAPITALS for emphasis, and they have been replaced by italics for book titles and by quotation marks for poem and short-story titles. Dates and titles have been standardized, too. Other than these few editorial changes, these letters appear here as Bukowski wrote them.

      1945

      Hallie Burnett coedited Story magazine, where Bukowski was first published in 1944.

      [To Hallie Burnett]

      Late October 1945

      I received your rejection of “Whitman: His Poetry and Prose,” along with the informal comments of your manuscript readers.

      Sounds like a nice thing.

      Should you ever need an extra manuscript reader, please let me know. I can’t find a job anywhere, so I might as well try you too.

      1946

      [To Caresse Crosby]

      October 9, 1946

      [To Caresse Crosby]

      November 1946

      I must write you once more to tell you how delighted I was to receive that delicious photo—Rome 1946—and your note. As to the lost manuscripts—damn them—they were no good anyhow—except maybe some violent sketches I made while sponging on my parents in Los Angeles. But such stuff to the birds: I am a poet, et al.

      Drink still has me wavering—typewriter gone. Still, ha ha, I hand-print out my stuff in ink. Have managed to get rid of three fair stories and four unsatisfactory poems to Matrix, a rather old-fashioned Philadelphia “little magazine.”

      I am really a much too nervous person to hitch hike to Washington to see you. I would break up into all sorts of quatern little pieces. Thanks, really, though. You’ve been very decent, very.

      Might send you something soon, but not for awhile. Whatever that means.

      1947

      [To Whit Burnett]

      April 27, 1947

      Thank you for the note.

      I don’t think I could do a novel—I haven’t the urge, though I have thought about it, and someday I might try it. Blessed Factotum would be the title and it would be about the low-class workingman, about factories and cities and courage and ugliness and drunkenness. I don’t think if I wrote it now it would be any good, though. I would have to get properly worked up. Besides, I have so many personal worries right now that I’m in no shape to look into a mirror, let alone run off a book. I am, however, surprised and pleased with your interest.

      I haven’t any other pen sketches, without stories, right now. Matrix took the only one I did that way.

      The world has had little Charles pretty much by the balls of late, and there isn’t much writer left, Whit. So hearing from you was damned lovely.

      1953

      [To Caresse Crosby]

      August 7, 1953

      Saw in book review (never really read one, but) your name, “Dail Press.”

      You printed me sometime back in Portfolio, one of the earliest (1946 or so?). Well, one time came into town off long drunk, forced to live with parents during feeble clime. Thing is, parents read story (“20 Tanks from Kasseldown”) and burnt whole damn Portfolio. Now, no

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