this book does not sit well with my current state of mind. it's either that, or it works perfectly well for my current state of mind. in either case, (and i mean this in the most phenomenal way possible), it's a messed up book about messed up people in messed up states of mind. through endless whiskeys, perpetual hangovers and countless fucks, through terrifically sexy women, the most nonchalant of bosses and the most mindless of jobs, henry chinaski is either looking for himself in the least profound way possible, or he's making an effort to lose himself in all of this.
i ought to mention how he talks about jobs - there's a comment very early in the book that i loved - "that's when I realised that it's not enough to just do your job, you had to have an interest for it, even a passion for it." and, most evidently, mr. chinaski doesn't. not in his job, not in anything, really. but the point isn't about mr. chinaski, the point is how well bukowski writes the mindless, assembly-line jobs, talking about exactly why they suck. i'd write a longer, more involved comment about why this is fascinating to me, but right now, two hours into finishing the book, that's not what i'm caught up with.
what i am knocked into a daze by, is how well he makes it all okay. being lost. or losing oneself. whichever. not having intimate relationships. not having anything to ground you. at the same time, the writer-self in the background is just as fascinating. because, for all his not giving a fuck, he does have something he does passionately - he incessantly writes. he has parents that he did fall back on. and hot meals. (the women. that's a whole mess by itself, that i don't even want to think about yet.)
anyway, it's just gone and messed with my head and i'm probably going to read more bukowski this month because you know i can't tell if it's a good thing or bad that i know something is just going to pull me into this shit further.
i ought to mention how he talks about jobs - there's a comment very early in the book that i loved - "that's when I realised that it's not enough to just do your job, you had to have an interest for it, even a passion for it." and, most evidently, mr. chinaski doesn't. not in his job, not in anything, really. but the point isn't about mr. chinaski, the point is how well bukowski writes the mindless, assembly-line jobs, talking about exactly why they suck. i'd write a longer, more involved comment about why this is fascinating to me, but right now, two hours into finishing the book, that's not what i'm caught up with.
what i am knocked into a daze by, is how well he makes it all okay. being lost. or losing oneself. whichever. not having intimate relationships. not having anything to ground you. at the same time, the writer-self in the background is just as fascinating. because, for all his not giving a fuck, he does have something he does passionately - he incessantly writes. he has parents that he did fall back on. and hot meals. (the women. that's a whole mess by itself, that i don't even want to think about yet.)
anyway, it's just gone and messed with my head and i'm probably going to read more bukowski this month because you know i can't tell if it's a good thing or bad that i know something is just going to pull me into this shit further.
1 comment:
Few men ever carved through squalor and pointlessness as Bukowski did. You're right about the fact that when you read him you sometimes can't tell why, but all you can do is helplessly give in as you're dragged through the slimy streets of mindlessness. He knots you up, doesn't he? The kind of thing that makes you wanna be dead and alive at the same time.
He kind of reminds me of Pynchon, but on a very different level. [Bukowski's probably a lot more succinctly poetic(?)]. Oh Pynchon... reading him is like god holding you by the scruff of your neck as he carts you through the world's absurdity at the speed of light.
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