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Lawrence, Ham on Rye offers a crude, brutal, and savagely funny portrait of an outcast's Скачать эту книгу (k) в формате: fb2, lrf, epub, mobi, txt, html. downloads Views KB Size Report. DOWNLOAD EPUB Bukowski, Charles - Chinaski 04 - Ham on Rye · Read more. To read e-books on the BookShout App, download it on: . Ham on Rye offers a crude, brutal, and savagely funny portrait of an outcast's coming-of-age during.

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ham on rye - lionandcompass - [pdf]free ham on rye download book ham on free (epub, pdf) - i have been returning to the work of charles. 1. The first thing I remember is being under something. It was a table, I saw a table leg, I saw the legs of the people, and a portion of the. Charles Bukowski - Reach for the Sun - Selected Letters, volepub. КБ. Charles Bukowski Charles Bukowski - Ham on ukraine-europe.info КБ.

Semi-autobiographical 'coming-of-age' novel, telling the story of a young man growing up in Los Angeles during the Great Depression. The first thing I remember is being under something. It was a table, I saw a table leg, I saw the legs of the people, and a portion of the tablecloth hanging down. It was dark under there, I liked being under there. It must have been in Germany. I must have been between one and two years old. It was

For You Explore. All recent searches will be deleted. Cancel Remove. Playing next 5: Bassnectar - Now ft. Rye Rye Remix Furious 7 Soundtrack. Stitchers S1E5: Bassnectar feat. Barsaat Main Ham Se Mily.. West Ham s'offre Dimitri Payet. Ham with Jam? Chhorr Aay Ham Wo Galiyaan.. He gets very nasty. He frightens me. I don't know what to do. Jesus Christ, what kind of ambition is that? And if a frog had wings he wouldn't wear his ass out a-hoppin'!

I turned and looked outside. The girls were gone from the porch, they had gone off somewhere. I stood there. He was riding his motorcycle one day. This young girl was hitch-hiking. She got onto the back of his motorcycle and as they rode along all of a sudden John saw an empty garage. He drove in there, closed the door and raped the girl" "How did you find out? The cops came and told me, they asked me where he was. To have him go to jail and evade his responsibilities? That's just what he'd want.

I don't look so good anymore. He saw a young girl, she looked good to him. A fly appeared and whirled around and around the table. We watched it. It circled closer and made buzzing sounds. The closer it circled the louder the buzzing became. My mother's hand leaped quickly.

It closed and she brought her hand back down to the table. The fly is gone. My father leaped up, grabbing at his throat. It isn't much: I hank you, both. There were two boxes of canned food in the car. I saw my father sitting there rigidly. He was still angry. My mother handed me the smaller box of cans and she took the large box and I followed her back into the court. We set the boxes down in the breakfast nook. Aunt Anna came over and picked up a can. It was a can of peas, the label on it covered with little round green peas.

Henry's dignity is upset. But this is like a dream. Wait until the girls come home. Wait until the girls see all these cans of food! Then they separated. Goodbye, Henry. I followed her. We walked to the car and got in. My father started the car. As we were driving off I saw my aunt at the door waving. My mother waved back. My father didn't wave back. I didn't either. He was always angry about something. Wherever we went he got into arguments with people.

But he didn't appear to frighten most people; they often just stared at him, calmly, and he became more furious. If we ate out, which was seldom, he always found something wrong with the food and sometimes refused to pay. What the hell kind of a place is this? Just leave. But I'll be back!

I'll burn this god-damned place down! Another clerk asked my mother, "Who is that horrible man? Everytime he comes in here there's an argument. Yet, I remember another time. He was working as a milkman and made early morning deliveries.

One morning he awakened me. I was wearing my pajamas and slippers. It was still dark, the moon was still up. We walked to the milk wagon which was horsedrawn. The horse stood very still. He took a sugar cube, put it in his hand and held it out to the horse. The horse ate it out of his palm. It was a very large horse. Hold out your hand! The head came down; I saw the nostrils; the lips pulled back, I saw the tongue and the teeth, and then the sugar cube was gone.

Try it again. The horse took the sugar cube and waggled his head. My parents wanted to be rich so they imagined themselves rich. The first children of my age that I knew were in kindergarten. They seemed very strange, they laughed and talked and seemed happy. I didn't like them. I always felt as if I was going to be sick, to vomit, and the air seemed strangely still and white.

We painted with watercolors. We planted radish seeds in a garden and some weeks later we ate them with salt. I liked the lady who taught kindergarten, I liked her better than my parents. One problem I had was going to the bathroom. I always needed to go to the bathroom, but I was ashamed to let the others know that I had to go, so I held it.

It was really terrible to hold it. And the air was white, I felt like vomiting, I felt like shitting and pissing, but I didn't say anything. And when some of the others came back from the bathroom I'd think, you're dirty, you did something in there The little girls were nice in their short dresses, with their long hair and their beautiful eyes, hut I thought, they do things in there too, even though they pretend they don't.

Kindergarten was mostly white air. Grammar school was different, first grade to sixth grade, some of the kids were twelve years old, and we all came from poor neighborhoods. I began to go to the bathroom, but only to piss.

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Coming out once I saw a small boy drinking at a water fountain. A larger boy walked up behind him and jammed his face down into the water jet. When the small boy raised his head, some of his teeth were broken and blood came out of his mouth, there was blood in the fountain. I walked back to class where the teacher was telling us about George Washington and Valley Forge. She wore an elaborate white wig. She often slapped the palms of our hands with a ruler when she thought we were being disobedient.

I don't think she ever went to the bathroom. I hated her. Each afternoon after school there would be a fight between two of the older boys. It was always out by the back fence where there was never a teacher about. And the fights were never even; it was always a larger boy against a smaller boy and the larger boy would beat the smaller boy with his fists, backing him into the fence.

Charles Bukowski

The smaller boy would attempt to fight hack but it was useless. Soon his face was bloody, the blood running down into his shirt. The smaller boys took their beatings wordlessly, never begging, never asking mercy. Finally, the larger boy would hack off and it would be over and all the other boys would walk home with the winner.

I'd walk home quickly, alone, after holding my shit all through school and all through the fight. Usually by the time I got home I would have lost the urge to relieve myself. I used to worry about that. I felt better being alone. I sat on a bench and watched the others play and they looked foolish to me. During lunch one day I was approached by a new boy. He wore knickers, was cross-eyed and pigeon-toed. I didn't like him, he didn't look good.

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He sat on the bench next to me. He opened his lunch bag. And some potato chips. Want some potato chips? He had plenty, they were crisp and salty, the sun shone right through them. They were good. He even had jelly on his peanut butter sandwiches. It dripped out and ran over his fingers. David didn't seem to notice, "Where do you live? We can walk home together after school. Take some more potato chips. Who's your teacher? I'll see you after class, we'll walk home together.

Why did he wear those knickers? What did he want? I really didn't like him. I took some more of his potato chips. That afternoon, after school, he found me and began walking along beside me. As we walked along I noticed a whole gang of boys, first graders, following us. At first they were half a block behind us, then they closed the gap to several yards behind us. He didn't answer, just kept walking. Get ready to die! Does he kiss your rear end? He threw him onto a lawn.

David stood up. A hoy got down behind him on his hands and knees. The other boy shoved him and David fell over backwards. Another boy rolled him over and rubbed his face in the grass. Then they stepped back. David got up again. He didn't make a sound but the tears were rolling down his face.

The largest boy walked up to him. Get out of our school! David bent over and as he did, the boy brought his knee up into David's face. David fell. He had a bloody nose. Then the boys circled me. There were always some of them behind me. Here I was loaded with shit and I had to fight. I was terrified and calm at the same time.

I didn't understand their motive. They kept circling and I kept turning. It went on and on. They screamed things at me but I didn't hear what they said. Finally they backed off and went away down the street. David was waiting for me. We walked down the sidewalk toward his place on Pickford Street. Then we were in front of his house. Look at your knickers and shirt! They're torn and full of grass stains! You do this almost every day!

Tell me, why do you do it? Why do you do this to your clothes? You stupid boy! David began to cry and she beat him harder. I stood on the front lawn and listened.

After a while the beating stopped. I could hear David sobbing. Then he stopped. His mother said, "Now, I want you to practice your violin lesson. Then I heard the violin. It was a very sad violin. I didn't like the way David played. I sat and listened for some time but the music didn't get any better.

The shit had hardened inside of me. I no longer felt like shifting. The afternoon light hurt my eyes. I felt like vomiting. I got up and walked home. The teachers didn't seem to know anything about them. And there was always trouble when it rained. Any boy who brought an umbrella to school or wore a raincoat was singled out. Most of our parents were too poor to buy us such things.

And when they did, we hid them in the bushes. Anybody seen carrying an umbrella or wearing a raincoat was considered a sissy. They were beaten after school. David's mother had him carry an umbrella whenever it was the least bit cloudy. There were two recess periods.

The first graders gathered at their own baseball diamond and the teams were chosen. David and I stood together. It was always the same. I was chosen next to last and David was chosen last, so we always played on different teams. David was worse than I was. With his crossed eyes, he couldn't even see the hall. I needed lots of practice.

I had never played with the kids in the neighborhood. I didn't know how to catch a hall or how to hit one. But I wanted to, I liked it. David was afraid of the ball, I wasn't. I swung hard, I swung harder than anybody but I could never hit the ball.

I always struck out. Once I fouled a hall off. That felt good. Another time I drew a walk. When I got to first, the first baseman said, "That's the only way you'll ever get here. He was chewing gum and he had long black hairs coming out of his nostrils. His hair was thick with vaseline. He wore a perpetual sneer.

I didn't know what to say. I wasn't used to conversation. I'll be waiting for you after school some day. I kept looking at him.

He had a terrible face. Then the pitcher wound up and I broke for second. I ran like crazy and slid into second. The ball arrived late. I he tag was late. I got up, not believing it. Then I knew that I was not accepted. David and I were not accepted. I he others wanted me "out" because I was supposed to be "out. It was because of David that I wasn't wanted. As I walked off the diamond I saw David playing third base in his knickers. His blue and yellow stockings had fallen down around his feet.

Why had he chosen me? I was a marked man. That afternoon after school I quickly left class and walked home alone, without David. I didn't want to watch him beaten again by our classmates or by his mother. I didn't want to listen to his sad violin. But the next day at lunch time, when he sat down next to me I ate his potato chips. My day came.

I was tall and I felt very powerful at the plate. I couldn't believe that I was as bad as they wished me to be. I swung wildly but with force. I knew I was strong, and maybe like they said, "crazy. Just hardened shit, maybe, hut that was more than they had. I was up at bat. I swung and I felt the bat connect like I had wanted it to do for so long. His name was Don Brubaker and he stood and watched it fly over his head. It looked like it was never going to come down.

Then Brubaker started running after the ball. He wanted to throw me out. He would never do it. The ball landed and rolled onto a diamond where some 5th graders were playing. I ran slowly to first, hit the bag, looked at the guy on first, ran slowly to second, touched it, ran to third where David stood, ignored him, tagged third and walked to home plate.

Never such a day. Never such a home run by a first grader! As I stepped on home plate I heard one of the players, Irving Bone, say to the team captain, Stanley Greenberg, "Let's put him on the regular team. Stanley was right.

I never hit another home run. I struck out most of the time. But they always remembered that home run and while they still hated me, it was a better kind of hatred, like they weren't quite sure why.

Football season was worse. We played touch football. I couldn't catch the football or throw it but I got into one game. When the runner came through I grabbed him by the shirt collar and threw him on the ground. When he started to get up, I kicked him. I didn't like him. It was the first baseman with vaseline in his hair and the hair in his nostrils. Stanley Greenberg came over. He was larger than any of us. He could have killed me if he'd wanted to. He was our leader. Whatever he said, that was it.

He told me, "You don't understand the rules. No more football for you. I played volleyball with David and the others.

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It wasn't any good. They yelled and screamed and got excited, but the others were playing football. I wanted to play football. All I needed was a little practice. Volleyball was shameful. Girls played volleyball. After a while I wouldn't play. I just stood in the center of the field where nobody was playing. I was the only one who would not play anything. I stood there each day and waited through the two recess sessions, until they were over. One day while I was standing there, more trouble came.

A football sailed from high behind me and hit me on the head. It knocked me to the ground. I was very dizzy. They stood around snickering and laughing. Henry fainted like a lady! Oh, look at Henry! Then it stood still. The sky moved closer and flattened out. It was like being in a cage. They stood around me, faces, noses, mouths and eyes. Because they were taunting me I thought they had deliberately hit me with the football.

It was unfair. I didn't answer. Billy was a round fat boy, really nicer than most, but he was one of them. I began walking toward Billy. He stood there. When I got close he swung. I almost didn't feel it. I hit him behind his left ear and when he grabbed his ear I hit him in the stomach. He fell to the ground. He stayed down. Stanley lifted Billy up and pushed him toward me. I punched Billy in the mouth and he grabbed his mouth with both hands. I decided to run, I didn't want to die.

But then a teacher came up. Hall took me by the ear all the way to the principal's office. He pushed me into a chair in front of an empty desk and then knocked on the principal's door. He was in there for some time and when he came out he left without looking at me. I sat there five or ten minutes before the principal came out and sat behind the desk.

He was a very dignified man with a mass of white hair and a blue bow tie. He looked like a real gentleman. His name was Mr. Knox folded his hands and looked at me without speaking. When he did that I was not so sure that he was a gentleman. He seemed to want to humble me, treat me like the others.

Charles Bukowski

His parents are going to want to know why. Knox sat there. He had a long letter opener and he slid it hack and forth on the green felt padding of the desk. He had a large bottle of green ink on his desk and a pen holder with four pens. I wondered if he would beat me. Knox slid the letter opener back and forth. The phone rang. He picked it up.

Oh, Mrs. He what? Listen, can't you administer the discipline? I'm busy now. All right, I'll phone you when I'm done with this one. He brushed his fine white hair back out of his eyes with one hand and looked at me. Knox's desk.

It hovered over his green ink bottle. Then it landed on the black cap of the ink bottle and sat there rubbing its wings. Let's shake hands on that. Then he stopped shaking it and looked at me. He had blue clear eyes lighter than the blue of his bow tie.

His eyes were almost beautiful. He kept looking at me and holding my hand. His grip began to tighten. He crushed the bones of my fingers together. I could feel the bone of each finger cutting like a blade into the flesh of the finger next to it. Shots of red flashed before my eyes. Knox tightened his grip. He had a hand like a vise. I could see every pore in his face.

I put my face down on the desk. He squeezed harder. I had to scream, but I kept it as quiet as possible so no one in the classes could hear me. I waited. I hated to say it. Then I said, "Yes. Knox let go of my hand. I was afraid to look at it. I let it hang by my side. I noticed that the fly was gone and I thought, it's not so bad to be a fly. Knox was writing on a piece of paper. And you will deliver it to them, won't you?

The envelope was sealed and I had no desire to open it. My bedroom. The best thing about the bedroom was the bed. I liked to stay in bed for hours, even during the day with the covers pulled up to my chin. It was good in there, nothing ever occurred in there, no people, nothing. My mother often found me in bed in the daytime. It's not good for a young boy to lay in bed all day!

Now, get up! Do something! I didn't go to bed that day. My mother was reading the note. Soon I heard her crying. Then she was wailing. You've disgraced your father and myself!

It's a disgrace! Suppose the neighbors find out? What will the neighbors think? Then the door opened and my mother came running into the room: I felt guilty. Somehow I felt guilty. I heard my father come in. He always slammed the door, walked heavily, and talked loudly. He was home. After a few moments the bedroom door opened. He was six feet two, a large man. Everything vanished, the chair I was sitting in, the wallpaper, the walls, all of my thoughts. He was the dark covering the sun, the violence of him made everything else utterly disappear.

He was all ears, nose, mouth, I couldn't look at his eyes, there was only his red angry face. Into the bathroom. The walls were white. There was a bathroom mirror and a small window, the screen black and broken. There was the bathtub and the toilet and the tiles. He reached and took down the razor strop which hung from a hook. It was going to be the first of many such bearings, which would recur more and more often.

Always, I felt, without real reason. Then he laid on the strop. The first blow inflicted more shock than pain. The second hurt more. Each blow which followed increased the pain.

At first I was aware of the walls, the toilet, the tub. Finally I couldn't see anything. As he beat me, he berated me, but I couldn't understand the words. I thought about his roses, how he grew roses in the yard. I thought about his automobile in the garage. I tried not to scream. I knew that if I did scream he might stop, but knowing this, and knowing his desire for me to scream, prevented me.

The tears ran from my eyes as I remained silent. After a while it all became just a whirlpool, a jumble, and there was only the deadly possibility of being there forever. Finally, like something jerked into action, I began to sob, swallowing and choking on the salt slime that ran down my throat. He stopped. He was no longer there. I became aware of the little window again and the mirror.

There was the razor strop hanging from the hook, long and brown and twisted. I couldn't bend over to pull up my pants or my shorts and I walked to the door, awkwardly, my clothes around my feet. I opened the bathroom door and there was my mother standing in the hall. I went to my bedroom, dragging my clothing around my feet and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress hurt me. Outside, through the rear screen I could see my father's roses growing.

They were red and white and yellow, large and full. The sun was very low but not yet set and the last of it slanted through the rear window. I felt that even the sun belonged to my father, that I had no right to it because it was shining upon my father's house. I was like his roses, something that belonged to him and not to me. There were two pillows on my chair. I sat on them but my legs and ass still burned.

My father was talking about his job, as always. Nobody is really pulling their weight around there. He was trying to be funny. That was one of his favorite remarks. I began eating. It was terrible. I felt as if I were eating them, what they believed in, what they were. I didn't chew any of it, I just swallowed it to get rid of it. Meanwhile my father was talking about how good it all tasted, how lucky we were to be eating good food when most of the people in the world, and many even in America, were starving and poor.

His face was horrible, the lips pushed out, greasy and wet with pleasure. He acted as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn't beaten me. When I was back in my bedroom I thought, these people are not my parents, they must have adopted me and now they are unhappy with what I have become. I still wasn't allowed to play with the children in the neighborhood, but sitting in the bedroom often got dull. I would go out and walk around in the backyard, looking at things, bugs mostly.

Or I would sit on the grass and imagine things. One thing I imagined was that I was a great baseball player, so great that I could get a hit every time at bat, or a home run anytime I wanted to. But I would deliberately make outs just to trick the other team. I got my hits when I felt like it. One season, going into July, I was hitting only.

Then I began to hit. And how I hit! At one time I allowed myself 16 home runs in a row. Another time I batted in 24 runs in one game. By the end of the season I was hitting. Lila Jane was one of the pretty girls I'd seen at school.

She was one of the nicest, and she was living right next door. One day when I was in the yard she came up to the fence and stood there looking at me. She had long red-brown hair and dark brown eyes.

She kept looking at me and I sat there on the grass and looked at her. Then she said, "Do you want to see my panties? She lifted her dress. The panties were pink and clean. They looked good. She kept holding her dress up and then turned around so that I could see her behind. Her behind looked nice. Then she pulled her dress down. It happened each afternoon. One afternoon after Lila Jane showed me her panties I said, "Let's go for a walk.

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I met her in front and we walked down the street together. She was really pretty.

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We walked along without saying anything until we came to a vacant lot. The weeds were tall and green. We walked out into the tall weeds. Blue panties. We got down in the weeds and I grabbed her by the hair and kissed her. Then I pulled up her dress and looked at her panties. I put my hand on her behind and kissed her again. I kept kissing her and grabbing at her behind. I did this for quite a long time.

Then I said, "Let's do it. I looked between the weeds. Maybe half a block away some men were working repairing the street.

I didn't see Lila Jane again for a while in the afternoons. It didn't matter. It was football season and I was -- in my imagination -- a great quarterback. I could throw the ball 90 yards and kick it But we seldom had to kick, not when I carried the ball. I was best running into grown men. I crushed them. It took five or six men to tackle me. Sometimes, like in baseball, I felt sorry for everybody and I allowed myself to be tackled after only gaining 8 or 10 yards.

Then I usually got injured, badly, and they had to carry me off the field. My team would fall behind, say 40 to 17, and with 3 or 4 minutes left to play I'd return, angry that I had been injured. Every time I got the ball I ran all the way to a touchdown.

How the crowd screamed! And on defense I made every tackle, intercepted every pass. I was everywhere. Chinaski, the Fury! With the gun ready to go off I took the kickoff deep in my own end zone. I ran forward, sideways, backwards.

I broke tackle after tackle, I leaped over fallen tacklers. I wasn't getting any blocking. My team was a bunch of sissies. Finally, with five men hanging on to me I refused to fall and dragged them over the goal line for the winning touchdown. I looked up one afternoon as a big guy entered our yard through the back gate.

He walked in and just stood there looking at me. He was a year or so older than I was and he wasn't from my grammar school. I stood up. We don't like cheaters at Marmount. He had on an old blue shirt, half unbuttoned in front. He had a leather thong on his left wrist.