Charles Bukowski Ham on Rye (1982)
Bukowski only wrote a handful of novels, the bulk of his published work being poetry. This was the first one I read, recommended by my late friend Andrew, an unfortunately dedicated alcoholic who shared some of Bukowski's habits and much of his general outlook. It was a good place to start. The general composition of Bukowski's narrative has calmed down since Post Office, less of the screaming capital letters, and with thirteen additional years of boozing and falling over seemingly providing further distance from the emotional battering laid down during his childhood years, here described in roughly autobiographical terms through the fictionalised persona of Henry Chinaski. I didn't have a bad childhood, but neither was it one so idyllic as to leave me with any soft focus desire for a return revisit; and I think anyone who engages in at least some degree of honest reflection will recognise the description of reality kicking you in the teeth over and over, even if child battery played no actual part.
Ham on Rye is, unsurprisingly, a far from pretty picture, and it would be shocking to read of Chinaski's dabbling with the politically far right in any other context. Tellingly, this seems to have been a gut reaction, as I suppose it often is, inspired by a distrust of the vocally and demonstratively liberal, which I can at least understand. What's more significant here is the author failing to give a shit about presenting himself as a sympathetic figure, not even really a victim of circumstance - which seems a fairly rare thing; and the visceral element is perfectly balanced with glimpses of beauty snatched here and there for the sake of contrast, or if not beauty then at least reasons to be alive: discovering the novels of D.H. Lawrence at the local public library, solitude, drink, fighting just for the sheer fucking fun of it.
America, regardless of James Dean, Marlon Brando, and whatever else it has told itself, never really did rebellion. It's a nation of boy scouts, good little soldiers, and loyal snitches who regard diversity and imagination as dangerous gateway drugs to Communism and homosexuality, and whose minds are easily blown by Michael J. Fox dancing on the hood of a gridlocked car so as to teach the grown-ups a thing or two about what it means to be young. This is why America's fuck-ups and square pegs tend to be pretty hardcore, at least Manson levels of craziness; although of course they don't quite count as America, not officially, not until we get the commodified Tarantino version, probably with Brad Pitt saying motherfucker in an amusing way which will inevitably give rise to a thousand cool memes, as they will be regarded by those fuckwits who place stock in the term cool holding any value whatsoever.
So that's a massive generalisation right there, but I'd guess it explains Ham on Rye and is therefore a recommendation.
Bukowski only wrote a handful of novels, the bulk of his published work being poetry. This was the first one I read, recommended by my late friend Andrew, an unfortunately dedicated alcoholic who shared some of Bukowski's habits and much of his general outlook. It was a good place to start. The general composition of Bukowski's narrative has calmed down since Post Office, less of the screaming capital letters, and with thirteen additional years of boozing and falling over seemingly providing further distance from the emotional battering laid down during his childhood years, here described in roughly autobiographical terms through the fictionalised persona of Henry Chinaski. I didn't have a bad childhood, but neither was it one so idyllic as to leave me with any soft focus desire for a return revisit; and I think anyone who engages in at least some degree of honest reflection will recognise the description of reality kicking you in the teeth over and over, even if child battery played no actual part.
Ham on Rye is, unsurprisingly, a far from pretty picture, and it would be shocking to read of Chinaski's dabbling with the politically far right in any other context. Tellingly, this seems to have been a gut reaction, as I suppose it often is, inspired by a distrust of the vocally and demonstratively liberal, which I can at least understand. What's more significant here is the author failing to give a shit about presenting himself as a sympathetic figure, not even really a victim of circumstance - which seems a fairly rare thing; and the visceral element is perfectly balanced with glimpses of beauty snatched here and there for the sake of contrast, or if not beauty then at least reasons to be alive: discovering the novels of D.H. Lawrence at the local public library, solitude, drink, fighting just for the sheer fucking fun of it.
America, regardless of James Dean, Marlon Brando, and whatever else it has told itself, never really did rebellion. It's a nation of boy scouts, good little soldiers, and loyal snitches who regard diversity and imagination as dangerous gateway drugs to Communism and homosexuality, and whose minds are easily blown by Michael J. Fox dancing on the hood of a gridlocked car so as to teach the grown-ups a thing or two about what it means to be young. This is why America's fuck-ups and square pegs tend to be pretty hardcore, at least Manson levels of craziness; although of course they don't quite count as America, not officially, not until we get the commodified Tarantino version, probably with Brad Pitt saying motherfucker in an amusing way which will inevitably give rise to a thousand cool memes, as they will be regarded by those fuckwits who place stock in the term cool holding any value whatsoever.
So that's a massive generalisation right there, but I'd guess it explains Ham on Rye and is therefore a recommendation.
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