I'm not convinced at all. I mean, ok. This is Charles Bukowski and everybody loves him. This is the first book of him I have ever read and I can say it is overrated. Totally overrated.
The content, first. It's about Henry Chinaski - you could say he's the author's alter ego, if it weren't the very same life of Bukowski - but I will try not to complain too much the lack of imagination. You may say that the witness of it is in his behaviours and actions which are the quintessence of a misogynist man. Well, I say he's just a drunk and there's no cleaverness in that.
Rather, I mean to show my disappointment due to the style of someone who claims that John Fante was his favourite writer. In Bukowski's sentences you can only find the shortness of Fante, but not his incisiviness, let alone his breaches of poetics.
In this volume I discovered only a couple of brilliant passages in 304 pages. Too little for such an esteemed author.
It left me nothing, a part from the vague sensation that I won't read Bukowski's books no more. And that's a shame. Or maybe not.
A fantastic reading. It is a harder version of Updike and really carries the story straight to the heart of the reader.