Earlier this year I read most of Bukowski's 'Ham on Rye. The book was somewhat tattered and water stained.
It was given to me by a mate who lives in the longgrass, he finds all kinds of interesting books which I am sometimes grateful he shares with me. (Other times not... depends on the book and what condition it's in, books get moldy when left in the scrub in a supermarket shopping bag)
As I came toward the end of the book I discovered the last 16 pages were missing! That was annoying, although if you've read Charles Bukowski's writing, (which, until Ham on Rye I hadn't) you may agree it was also a bit of a relief! Well kind of, he is so full of contradictions and a self deprecating humor, possibly a master of irony, I find myself loving and being repulsed by him at the same time.... much as I suspect he reacted to himself.
This afternoon as I was searching for some important documents in my mess of a draw at work, I found a small pile of yellow and creased pages crammed somewhere between something I was looking for last week and a bunch of stuff I should have thrown out a year ago. The final pages of the book! Hallelujah!
Started reading and low and behold.... 4 pages were still missing!