His prose fiction contains zero emotional content, by design, and doesn’t attempt to be journalistic in the George Orwell mode. And yet, the last page of Factotum leaves you feeling like you’ve just sailed off the edge of a cliff, looked down and seen something terrible.
I’d previously read Post Office and loved it. The writing is superbly minimal. That’s probably why it’s such a gut punch; Henry Chinaski actively resists and repels any feelings of pity by just getting on with things, by being a shiftless, incurable drifter, and and by enjoying various dodgy pursuits a little too much. So when the tiniest, merest hint of an implication of vulnerability sneaks in, it becomes a very big deal. And then it ends.
I am very much looking forward to reading Women.
something worse than the horrific fall ahead of you?
I have a big Bukowski shaped gap in my reading. Really must sort that out.
You should, he’s ridiculously easy to read. I can’t vouch for his poetry as I haven’t read any of it, but Maybury is a fan.
I read post office and quite liked it. As for his poems, he’s so frustrating in a way. You can skim through half the book not really being touched in any way, but there’s usually a dozen poems that make you stop, and reread and reread and reread. And then you start breathing again.
I get that with a lot of Beat writing. I get the impression that they kind of threw stuff out there, and the nature of the energy behind it was such that when it worked, it really fuckin worked.
I adored Post Office; second I finished it, I started it again.
I had really low expectations cos Burroughs didn’t do much for me(Junkie) and I wouldn’t be surprised if my hatred of On the Road were to become general knowledge due to how often I slot into conversations how terrible it was.
Howdy dere. Wouldn’t be a fan of On The Road at all at all. Bukowski uses very few words to describe a lot of action, Kerouac… doesn’t.
But he descirbes the great scenery off all the places they go! New York, Denver, the road between New York and Denver, Denver again, same road once more, Denver… all the while accompanied by the biggest b@stard imaginable.
If I ever wish I was around in the 50s I’ll just remind myself people were dreaming of going to Denver back then.