For The Love Of Wisdom

by Charles Bukowski

the other day we were in a

bookstore in the mall

and my woman said, "look, there's

Bob!"

"I don't know him," I said.

"we had dinner with him

not too long ago," she said.

"all right," I said, "let's get

out of here."

Bob was a clerk in the store

and his back was to us.

my woman yelled, "hello, Bob!"

Bob turned and smiled, waved.

my woman waved back.

I nodded at Bob, a very

delicate blushing fellow.

(Bob, that is.)

outside my woman asked, "don't you

remember him?"

"no."

"he came over with Ella. re-

member Ella?"

"no."

my woman remembers everything.

I don't understand it, although

I suppose it's polite

to remember names and faces

I just can't do it

I don't want to carry all those

Bobs and Ellas and Jacks and Marions

and Darlenes around in my mind. eating and

drinking with them is difficult enough.

to attempt to recall them at will

is an affront to my well-

being.

that they remember me is

bad enough.