I've been reading nothing but pulp space opera lately, so yesterday I put down Edmond Hamilton's Return to the Stars and picked up my old but unread copy of Charles Bukowski's Women.
Bukowski. If ever there was hope for ugly male writers, he's it. I'm tellin' you, the man was ugly... but damn, he could write. And with his talents and abilities came lots and lots of women. Some were just as ugly as him; others were more beautiful than he deserved. Some were his age, but more than a few were young. All of them had just a pinch of weirdness thrown in.
Hence his novel, Women. I'm only on page 136 and already he's slept with eight or nine different chicks. The main girlfriend, Lydia, seems to be the flame to his moth. Wild, destructive, totally insane, Lydia whirls in and out of his life like a cyclone, leaving behind a trail of broken glass, beer bottles, and beat-up girls. Meanwhile, Chinaski (Bukowski) hops from one poetry reading to the next, sleeping with vulnerable, star-struck, malleable female fans. For a man with a face that looks like the pock-marked surface of an airless moon, he gets an awful lot of action. See where talent gets ya?
I'm not saying I condone his conduct. The man said it himself, he was drawn to whores. And most of them were. But occasionally he would meet a good, decent woman, and the lecherous drunkeness would fade away to reveal a softer, tender side. It's amazing how some men define themselves through the women in their lives. For some, women are conquests, and the man is the king, the emperor, the mighty conquerer. For others, it's a reflection of their own self-esteem: the hotter the chick, the hotter the man. For still others, the act of sex is a form of revenge against women. A broken, embittered man seeks out the youngest, purest virgins and deflowers them like he's tenderizing thick slabs of raw meat. "Hah! Take that, ex-girlfriend! Take that, the guy who's screwing her now. Take that, every girl, from high school to now, who has ever turned me down!" Bukowski's character, Chinaski, seems to embody all these types. He's attracted to different women for different reasons. For some, he's doing it because there's nothing, or no one, else to do. For others, he's doing it because he "likes to stick it to girls twenty years younger than him." Young ladies, the more sweet and innocent, the better. At one point he says, "...It was like raping the Virgin Mary". Shocking, yeah, but it cuts right to the heart of it.
If you mostly read Stephen King, John Grisham, or Tom Clancy novels, then Bukowski's stuff might come across as... well, pornographic... but in the end, it holds up to literary merit. The guy always manages to "humanify" the luridness of his tales, and to let us know that, although he may not be likeable, or even good, he's still trying...
I like this book. For one, it makes me more aware of my youth. I'm only 25 years old. At the time of this novel, Bukowski was 55. And UGLY. And even if one one-hundredth of his writing is true, then ladies flock to writers and throw their bodies at them with all the ardor, passion, and eagerness of... of a woman who wants to sleep with a writer (it may be her only shot at immortality.) I also like the book's narrative style. First person, tough, quick, efficient, very Beat, very Hemingwayesque. Although his language is "colorful" during the sex scenes, he doesn't linger on the descriptions. He knew what the reader needed to know, and we know enough to pick up where he leaves off.
I'm only half-way through the book. I think I'll finish it either tonight or tomorrow afternoon. Bukowski books are easy reads. Lots and lots of dialogue, and short chapters. It lends itself well to scriptwriting, which you can see for yourself in his semi-autobiographical film Barfly. As soon as I'm done reading I'll add some more thoughts about it to the blog. Not that anybody reads this thing. I guess I'm doing it more for posterity... or maybe just to keep myself busy. I think I just like talking about myself.
Going from grandiose fleet battles in the glittering vastness of space to the dive bars and ramshackle bungalows of an over-the-hill, acne-scarred, drunken lech is quite a leap. But that's what I like about books.
It's one of the reasons I want to be a writer. ;-)
I'm going to go back and finish Return to the Stars when I'm through with Women. But then I think I'm going to read a Kerouac novel after that... let my obsession with laser guns and rocketships cool for just a while. I haven't read a Kerouac novel in at least 2 years. I think. I read On the Road once a year for three years, from '98 to 2000. I practically have it memorized. Maybe one more go around with Sal, Dean, Carlo, Old Bull Lee, and the rest of the gang would do me some good.
Bukowski. If ever there was hope for ugly male writers, he's it. I'm tellin' you, the man was ugly... but damn, he could write. And with his talents and abilities came lots and lots of women. Some were just as ugly as him; others were more beautiful than he deserved. Some were his age, but more than a few were young. All of them had just a pinch of weirdness thrown in.
Hence his novel, Women. I'm only on page 136 and already he's slept with eight or nine different chicks. The main girlfriend, Lydia, seems to be the flame to his moth. Wild, destructive, totally insane, Lydia whirls in and out of his life like a cyclone, leaving behind a trail of broken glass, beer bottles, and beat-up girls. Meanwhile, Chinaski (Bukowski) hops from one poetry reading to the next, sleeping with vulnerable, star-struck, malleable female fans. For a man with a face that looks like the pock-marked surface of an airless moon, he gets an awful lot of action. See where talent gets ya?
I'm not saying I condone his conduct. The man said it himself, he was drawn to whores. And most of them were. But occasionally he would meet a good, decent woman, and the lecherous drunkeness would fade away to reveal a softer, tender side. It's amazing how some men define themselves through the women in their lives. For some, women are conquests, and the man is the king, the emperor, the mighty conquerer. For others, it's a reflection of their own self-esteem: the hotter the chick, the hotter the man. For still others, the act of sex is a form of revenge against women. A broken, embittered man seeks out the youngest, purest virgins and deflowers them like he's tenderizing thick slabs of raw meat. "Hah! Take that, ex-girlfriend! Take that, the guy who's screwing her now. Take that, every girl, from high school to now, who has ever turned me down!" Bukowski's character, Chinaski, seems to embody all these types. He's attracted to different women for different reasons. For some, he's doing it because there's nothing, or no one, else to do. For others, he's doing it because he "likes to stick it to girls twenty years younger than him." Young ladies, the more sweet and innocent, the better. At one point he says, "...It was like raping the Virgin Mary". Shocking, yeah, but it cuts right to the heart of it.
If you mostly read Stephen King, John Grisham, or Tom Clancy novels, then Bukowski's stuff might come across as... well, pornographic... but in the end, it holds up to literary merit. The guy always manages to "humanify" the luridness of his tales, and to let us know that, although he may not be likeable, or even good, he's still trying...
I like this book. For one, it makes me more aware of my youth. I'm only 25 years old. At the time of this novel, Bukowski was 55. And UGLY. And even if one one-hundredth of his writing is true, then ladies flock to writers and throw their bodies at them with all the ardor, passion, and eagerness of... of a woman who wants to sleep with a writer (it may be her only shot at immortality.) I also like the book's narrative style. First person, tough, quick, efficient, very Beat, very Hemingwayesque. Although his language is "colorful" during the sex scenes, he doesn't linger on the descriptions. He knew what the reader needed to know, and we know enough to pick up where he leaves off.
I'm only half-way through the book. I think I'll finish it either tonight or tomorrow afternoon. Bukowski books are easy reads. Lots and lots of dialogue, and short chapters. It lends itself well to scriptwriting, which you can see for yourself in his semi-autobiographical film Barfly. As soon as I'm done reading I'll add some more thoughts about it to the blog. Not that anybody reads this thing. I guess I'm doing it more for posterity... or maybe just to keep myself busy. I think I just like talking about myself.
Going from grandiose fleet battles in the glittering vastness of space to the dive bars and ramshackle bungalows of an over-the-hill, acne-scarred, drunken lech is quite a leap. But that's what I like about books.
It's one of the reasons I want to be a writer. ;-)
I'm going to go back and finish Return to the Stars when I'm through with Women. But then I think I'm going to read a Kerouac novel after that... let my obsession with laser guns and rocketships cool for just a while. I haven't read a Kerouac novel in at least 2 years. I think. I read On the Road once a year for three years, from '98 to 2000. I practically have it memorized. Maybe one more go around with Sal, Dean, Carlo, Old Bull Lee, and the rest of the gang would do me some good.
posted by Billy at 12:49 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home