I’ve never heard a bad word said about Charles Bukowski; anyone I know who reads his books seems to love them. With that in mind, I thought it was worth a go, but for some reason I think I must be the fluke to the rule since… I just didn’t really enjoy it that much.
I like books with scandal, and fair play on him having loads of sex with other women, but I found it just a bit boring. Just like I slated 50 Shades of Grey for the limited language on anatomy, I got really tired of reading cunt. I touched her cunt, I played with her cunt, her cunt was this, her cunt was that. I about choked on my drink when I eventually read the word pussy.
The book reminds me of Thompson’s The Rum Diaries in that the plot was written in a very matter of fact way, and nothing overly exciting seemed to happen, but I kept reading. Unlike Thompson’s book, I did find myself skim reading towards the end of this. I had a fair idea as to what the ‘grand action’ would be to end the book, and I was completely right. A bit of an anti-climax, and a predictable one at that.
I think it’s the style that threw me off. Very matter-of-fact. I did this, she said that. I have liked books with a matter-of-fact approach before but this was a bit too reliant on that. I ended up losing track of who was who with all the women, based purely on how limited the descriptions were. I know some were plump, I know one had long red hair (right?). I mean, the only female character I can remember is Lydia, and that’s because she was pretty psychotic. (She reminds me of someone I know in real life, but that’s a story for another time…)
So, my introduction to Charles Bukowski wasn’t overly brilliant. I’ve not given up on him yet, but I think his style of writing isn’t something I’ll fall into easily.