Henry Charles Bukowski, Jr. was, in my opinion, the greatest American fiction writer of the last half of the 20th century.
Fortunately for his book sales, most think of him as the archetypal drunk, misanthropic male pig. Whatever else he was, he was also the archetypal writer, a force of nature who knew exactly what to do to a blank page.
He thought and talked deeply about the craft of writing during his lifetime, and on many occasions, he bluntly voiced his opinions about what works, what doesn’t, and why.
He once wrote what he thought was the secret to all immortal writing.