I've read it many times before but it never gets old, never loses its relevance, and never fails to pack a punch as visceral as an actual punch in the face. The usual people continue to whine about either failing to get Bukowski, or otherwise expressing despair at those who do, for they must be simpletons and easily pleased because where's the fucking poetry? Anyone can describe a hangover or a fight in a dive bar and it goes to show how little you've read blah blah blah…
The poetry isn't so much in the words as in that which they evoke, because no-one ever congratulated Pablo Picasso on his decision to use blue paint. That which Bukowski evokes will be familiar to a few of us because we've been in the same places with the same people and the same diminished prospects; so it could be that Factotum may not resonate quite so strongly with you should you be sat reading it in the conservatory, or like the Goodreads twat who so loved Lawrence's Mornings in Mexico, early on a summer morning on the porch with a cup of coffee at hand. This is not just entertainment, nor mere diversion. It was never supposed to be entertainment. It's more serious than that, and maybe it just ain't for you. You ever think of that?
As for those of us who will get something from this, I don't know if there's really much point in trying to describe what it does, because most likely you will already know. This is how the real world works once you've got down beneath all the layers of bullshit, deception, and flim-flams; and, as such, Factotum is almost the perfect novel.
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