Charles Bukowski, poet, writer, alcoholic, writes about a character called Henry Chinaski, a poet, a writer and an alcoholic. Obviously, Hank Chinaski is the alter-ego of Charlie Bukowski and by writing about Chinaski, Bukowski is free to (very) narrowly disguise the other characters in his book. This achieves two effects, firstly, it lends an air of authenticity and intimacy to the novel, the people that Bukowski writes about Chinaski encountering are real people. It also means that he’s guaranteed at least a few sales of his book, as friends and acquaintances rush to acquire his new novel to see what the bastard has written about them or, even worse, to see if the bastard has not written about them.

For a writer writing about, basically, himself, Bukowski disappoints slightly by not giving Chinaski at least one super power. I mean really, not even X ray vision? He comes close though, as Chinaski is able to drink like a fish, screw like a weasel and still find time for more drinking, writing, poetry recitals and readings and, oh yea, more drinking. Chinaski drinks so much and so often that after reading one section of the book where he does not have a drink for three pages, I started shaking.

The other thing Chinaski does a lot, an awful lot, in this book, is f**k. Which is surprising at first, because early on in the book you formulate the idea that he doesn’t like women very much. Read on, and you discover that his ire is not confined to misogyny, he hates men too (mistersogyny), people in general (sodthelotofyousogyny) and, most of all and most deeply and bitterly, he hates himself (Isogyny).

On the question of identity, you do wonder why change the name, to protect the innocent? It’s obvious that Hank is Charlie and there are no innocents in this book.

Hank is a successful writer, giving readings and recitals and also, as a direct consequence, fielding star-stuck young women who want to screw a celebrity. Hank obliges. Being a writer is a respectable profession for an alcoholic and Hank is obviously a good writer (he supports himself doing it) and an outstanding alcoholic (on one sequence shaming the local liquor store into making a delivery because he spends so much money there). Alternative professions for alcoholics are the priesthood, medicine or, a far far more popular option, hanging around public transport hubs begging in clothes that reek of piss.

Make no mistake, if you’re reading this book in public, on the bus or train, then you will feel at least ten percent shame at all times, and you will have a defensive line prepared in case somebody is reading over your shoulder and realises that you’re reading filth. And this is filthy stuff. They ought to make a waterproof edition so that you can read it in the shower and so not finish a passage and consider that you need a good going over with a scrubbing brush and some disinfectant. The sex is grimy and gratuitous and continues for page after page after page (a different woman each time, rather than a remarkably long description or remarkable stamina). Half way through the book there’s a description of anal sex and one wonders if it was put there by Bukowski so that the reader is reading the description of sex while holding the book open at the half way point, the pages spread each side like pale white buttocks…covered in print, like somebody with a very detailed tattoo, or who wipes their ass with newspaper.

The sex is not always successful, but for somebody who drinks as much as Chinaski, it’s too successful too often. Maybe that’s Chinaski’s super power? I thought that it was slightly incongruous that, given the many women he sleeps with over the course of the novel, there are few, if any, bedroom disasters. (Christ, my big book of sexual disasters would be up to chapter five before it started to get into occasions when there was another person present).

Women is a guilty pleasure, but a great guilty pleasure. The reader gets great pleasure and Chinaski is shot through with a great amount of guilt. ( )

I didn't enjoy it. I didn't mind the crudeness particularly but just failed to see the point in the book. ( )

While reading this all I could think of was "wow he is getting laid an awful lot." It was an interesting read and the first novel I've read by Mr. Bukowski. It was fun to read how a man who went from not getting very many women to having young beautiful girls come knocking on his door acted. I look forward to reading more of Mr. Bukowski's work. ( )

What can I say, classic Bukowski... ( )