“I worked in slaughterhouses, washed dishes; worked in a daylight factory; hung posters in the New York subways, scrubbed freight cars and washed passenger trains in the depot; was a warehouse worker, a shipping agent, a mailman, a hobo, a gas station attendant, was in charge of coconuts in a cake factory, drove trucks, was a foreman in a wholesale book warehouse, carried bottles of blood and pressed rubber hoses for the Red Cross; played dice, bet on horses, was a madman, a fool, a god…” Bukowski writes about himself. Well, this is exactly how - cynical, brutal, far from refined bohemia - most readers imagine the one who invented Henry Chinaski, who is traditionally considered the author’s alter ego. Letters on Writing will reveal another Bukowski—the one who wrote: “Creation is our gift, and we are sick with it. It splashed in my bones and woke me up staring at the walls at five o'clock in the morning..." Someone who was obsessed with writing and, like any writer, wanted to be heard.