To be exact, and to explicate, one pompous aspect in the propagation of this thing called “soul” is its ignorance of the fact that people affect each other to eventual commonness. So in pursuing the fulfillment of the “soul,” a person rejects coexistence, in a sense. This is, of course, a decision made alone, the personal matter of the self making it.
Bukowski said, “Only two things matter in life: don’t get caught drunk anywhere, and don’t get caught without money.” Bukowski’s writing tends to be a lot of things, among which are humorous, fast-paced and urban. It’s for his very ability not to care too much about himself that his works have value. They’re among the most illustrative of our times. A given of his stories is likely to unleash a bevy of authentic, cutting dialogue, rapacious cognition and of course his twisted overall drunk perspective, which must have value too, or his books wouldn’t balloon on shelves, and his muse wouldn’t surface in rock songs. But it’s nice to not have this “spiritual” stasis anywhere in there.