you forget the passage in Women . . .
"what would this guy do if he found himself in a room with people more brilliant and more original and more Positive than he? Would he listen and learn? Or would he simply outshout, outdrink, and outpuke everyone else?"
At a party Linda (the first), I think, dragged him to, where the art scene and wanna-be poets descended. Bukowski gets drunk, starts a fight, breaks some shit, and clears out the house. Later he writes, and I paraphrase, "why is it when I'm sober I don't talk, seek solitude, hide from people, but when I get drunk I rant and rave, fight and fuck, screaming at the top of my lungs?" . . . okay, so I slaughtered ol'buk, but the point of the man and his writing has never been positioned in the flux of human traffic.