I just finished Ham on Rye by Charles Bukowski. Again a very good read. The book describes the bad years in his early life as a kid, as a teen and finally as a young men attending college but leaving because he does not want to conform into that system. On one hand it is still the typical Bukowski read but also very depressing in a way. His dad never accepted him and let his son feel it in every single moment. His mother tried to be the typical family moderator without having the power to protect his kid and failed miserably.
The read is especially interesting because of the rise in the wording during the chapters. While writing as a kid he did not use all the cursing in his typical blatant style. Later he starts to curse the shit out of his mind. Especially while fighting his friend and while drinking.
He decided to be a philosophical, intelectual drinker as I call him.
One can argue, that Bukowski is exactly that - but more the drinker in the expression. As I already wrote earlier I like the stuff because with his writing he is showing the world how live is on the precipice of society in a country like the U.S. . This is still a very important lecture nowadays. Life is not money, flowers and happiness. The society is pressing many people (over 90% when you follow various numbers) into an unsatisfying life with a lot of problems leading into addiction and violence. There is no chance to not follow the game society is dictating in our fine 1st world. Either you play the game or you are a outcast loser.
We all can learn from Bukowski’s writing. That he is not just an unempathic asshole is shown in this excerpt - at least I think so ;-):
'Hey, buddy!' I hollered, 'turn that thing down!'
There was no response.
I walked to the wall and pounded on it.
‘I SAID, “TURN THAT FUCKING THING DOWN!”‘
The volume remaind the same.I walked outside to his door. I was in my shorts. I raised my leg and jammed my foot into the door. It bust open. There were two people in the cot., an old fat guy and an old fat woman. The were fucking. There was a small candle burning. The old guy was on top. He stopped and turned his head and looked. SHe looked up underneath him. The place was very nicely fixed-up with curtains and a little rug.
‘Oh, I’m sorry …‘
I closed their door and went back to my place. I felt terrible. The poor had a right to fuck their way through their bad dreams. Sex and drink, and mybe love, was all the had.
I sat back down and poured a glass of wine. I left my door open. The moonlight came in with the sounds of the city: juke boxes, automobiles, curses, dogs barking, radios ... We were all in it together. We wer all in one big shit pot together. There was no escape. We were all going to be flushed away.
A small cat walked by, stopped at my door and looked in.
The eyes were lit by the moon: pure red like fire. Such wonderful eyes.
‘Come on, kitty …’ I held my hand out as if there were food in it. ‘Kitty, kitty …‘
The cat walked on by.
I heard the radio in the next room shut of.I finished my wine and went outside. I was in my shorts as before. I pulled them up and tucked in my parts. I stood before the other door. I had broken the lock. I could see the light from the candle inside. The had the door wedege closed with something, probably a chair.
I knocked quietly.
There was no answer.
I knocked again.
I heard something. Thne the door opened.The old fat guy stood there. His face was hung with great folds of sorrow. He was all eybrowes and mustache and two sad eyes.
‘Listen,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry for what I did. Won’t you and your girl come over to my place for a drink?’
‘No.’
‘Or maybe I can bring you both something to drink?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘please leave us alone.’
He closed the door.
Charles Bukowski, Ham and Rye, page 338, 339, Black Sparrow Press, 1982