Women - Charles Bukowski

1978; 291 pages. New Author? : No. Genre : Fictional Autobiography. Overall Rating : 5*/10.

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Charles Bukowski (via his alter ego, Henry Chinaski) wants you to know that even when he's 50 years old, ugly, and his gut is hanging over his belt; because he's a celebrated poet, beautiful women half his age line up at the door to go to bed with him. Nyah, nyah, nyah.

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And that the reason he treats them all like dirt is because, before he became famous (his teens, 20's, and 30's), these same women wouldn't give him the time of day. And that the reason he never falls in love with any of them is because he was unloved as a child. Charles Bukowski also wants you to know he's a male chauvinist pig.

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What's To Like...

The book lives up to its name and Bukowski's reputation. There are bunches of women and bunches of sex. There is booze on every page. There are nine bouts of vomiting, eight of which are by Buko. Yes, I counted them.

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The girls who rolled in the hay with our studly geezer deserve mention. So there's Lydia, Lilly, Valerie, April, Dee Dee, Nicole, Mindy, Laura, Joanna, Tammie, Mercedes, Cecelia, Liza, Gertrude, Hilda, Cassie, Debra, Tessie, Sara, Iris, Valencia, Tanya, and an unnamed Hispanic hooker. That's a new partner every dozen pages or so.

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If you muck through all the raunch, there is a lot of insight here as well. And when he isn't drunk, hungover, angry or stoned; Bukowski really is a talented writer. His favorite musician is Randy Newman, and that's worth half a star. And the kewl drawing on the bookcover was done by Bukowski himself.

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Kewl New Words...

None. Bukowski is the poet of the proletariat. They don't need no high-falootin' words.

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Excerpts...

Glendoline picked up a chair and started talking. She could talk. If she was a sphinx she could have talked, if she was a stone she could have talked. I wondered when she'd get tired and leave. Even after I stopped listening it was like being battered with tiny pingpong balls. (pg. 12)

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There is a problem with writers. If what a writer wrote was published and sold many, many copies, the writer thought he was great. If what a writer wrote was published and sold a medium number of copies, the writer thought he was great. If what a writer wrote was published and sold very few copies, the writer thought he was great. If what the writer wrote never was published and he didn't have the money to publish it himself, then he thought he was truly great. (pg. 140)

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Cecelia wanted to go for a constitutional around 2 PM. We walked through the court. She noticed the poinsettias. She walked right up to a bush and stuck her face in the flowers, caressing them with her fingers.

"Oh, they're so beautiful!"

"They're dying, Cecelia. Can't you see how shriveled they are? The smog is killing them."

We walked along under the palms.

"And there are birds everywhere! Hundreds of birds, Hank!"

"And dozen of cats." (pg. 175)

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Love (is) for guitar players, Catholics and chess freaks. (pg. 249)

One gets the impression Bukowksi is prone to exaggeration in Women. Which he is allowed to do, since he makes it clear this is a novel. Each time after he beds one of the women, they get all clingy and he has to dump them. Yeah right.

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People either love or hate Bukowski's works, and this book is no exception. The best I can say is, if "Letters To Hustler Magazine" is your kind of prose, then you will find Women to be fantastic. For everyone else, keep in mind that there are some very good parts here, if you dig deep enough. Just remember to wash your hands when you're done. 5 Stars.