Book Review
Several years ago, I was having a conversation with some friends and, as an English major, I was surprised to learn that I'd never heard of Charles Bukowski even though he was, I was assured, as big a part of the scene as Jack Keroac and the like. I was aghast and ashamed that I didn't know who this man was, and resolved to get ahold of some of his work and check him out for myself.
So I read a collection of short stories that I wasn't all that impressed with, but short stories aren't his forte, I'm assured, so I just finished reading one of his novels, Women.
This has been one of those books that has taken me forever to read. I have begun and finished numerous other books while still trudging along with this one. It's not that it was horrible. It's just that it was repetitive.
Bukowski is known for being a womanizing alcoholic, but honestly, that is not what put me off about the book at all. The problem I had was that booze and women were all he talked about. Sometimes he'd go off for a while about the track, but those little trips into new territory were few and far between. Mostly the book goes like this:
So I woke up with a hangover. Took a shit. Some woman called me and said she wanted to do me. She came over. We drank a whole lot. We had sex. I was too drunk so I couldn't finish and I just rolled over.
Now, to be fair, I do think there are certain passages in which Bukowski allows his character to try to actually analyze his relationship with women. Some of it is interesting. For example:
There was something wrong with me: I did think of sex a great deal. Each woman I look at I imagined being in bed with. It was an interesting way to pass airport waiting time. Women: I liked the colors of their clothing; the way they walked; the cruelty in some faces; now and then the almost pure beauty in another face, totally and enchantingly female. They had it over us: they planned much better and were better organized. While men were watching professional football or drinking beer or bowling, they, the women, were thinking about us, concentrating, studying, deciding--whether to accept us, discard us, exchange us, kill us or whether simply to leave us. In the end it hardly mattered; no matter what they did, we ended up lonely and insane.(241)
Overall, if this is representative of Charles Bukowski, I'm going to have to say that I'm not a fan. I'm neither scandalized, nor particularly intrigued by his frequent vulgarity. I think next I'll try to read some of his poetry and see if that changes my mind.
I give this book ~ ~
(out of a possible five tildes)
So I read a collection of short stories that I wasn't all that impressed with, but short stories aren't his forte, I'm assured, so I just finished reading one of his novels, Women.
This has been one of those books that has taken me forever to read. I have begun and finished numerous other books while still trudging along with this one. It's not that it was horrible. It's just that it was repetitive.
Bukowski is known for being a womanizing alcoholic, but honestly, that is not what put me off about the book at all. The problem I had was that booze and women were all he talked about. Sometimes he'd go off for a while about the track, but those little trips into new territory were few and far between. Mostly the book goes like this:
So I woke up with a hangover. Took a shit. Some woman called me and said she wanted to do me. She came over. We drank a whole lot. We had sex. I was too drunk so I couldn't finish and I just rolled over.
Now, to be fair, I do think there are certain passages in which Bukowski allows his character to try to actually analyze his relationship with women. Some of it is interesting. For example:
There was something wrong with me: I did think of sex a great deal. Each woman I look at I imagined being in bed with. It was an interesting way to pass airport waiting time. Women: I liked the colors of their clothing; the way they walked; the cruelty in some faces; now and then the almost pure beauty in another face, totally and enchantingly female. They had it over us: they planned much better and were better organized. While men were watching professional football or drinking beer or bowling, they, the women, were thinking about us, concentrating, studying, deciding--whether to accept us, discard us, exchange us, kill us or whether simply to leave us. In the end it hardly mattered; no matter what they did, we ended up lonely and insane.(241)
Overall, if this is representative of Charles Bukowski, I'm going to have to say that I'm not a fan. I'm neither scandalized, nor particularly intrigued by his frequent vulgarity. I think next I'll try to read some of his poetry and see if that changes my mind.
I give this book ~ ~
(out of a possible five tildes)