Ham on Rye by Charles Bukowski

I may have read the rest of Bukowski's novels, this being his last which tells his life story as lived by Henry Chinaski. He's an old fashioned drunk ass hole. Everything is ugly from the view of this ugly man. And there's a definite poeticism to it. There's a reason Bukowski's so famous.

He doesn't waste his reader's time, regardless of what contempt he might feel for anyone who might pick up his books. Bukowski's writing was likely the only good thing he did. And there's something special about that. Every page is indulgent and juicy. And the scenes of the first and last time his dad beat him come out like songs. Dark songs before their time.

We could talk for ever about separating art from their artists, and I think every case is different. Often art is the good that comes from the most depressing of realities and delusions. To create is to channel the good and move forward, connecting the quiet within to the nastiness on outside.

The high points in Bukowski's story are mostly about getting in fights and peeping on his neighbors, masturbating in the bushes. And one who can make others feel happy for them in such moments must have a gift. That's my piece on Bukowski. You've heard of him and you already have an opinion.