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"What do you think of women?" she asked.

"I’m not a thinker. Every woman is different. Basically, they seem to be a combination of the best and the worst – both magic and terrible. I’m glad that they exist, however. (Bukowski, Women, p.188)

Charles Bukowski’s novel Women is a sick, sick story of hopeless sexual compulsion. His honesty addicts you and his characters repulse you.

It is 300 pages of the alcoholic womanizing poet Henry Chinaski. He devours disturbed woman after disturbed woman, hating himself, but justifying his actions with philosophical arguments. I suppose it is essentially a study of the female sex through a scumbag’s eyes. He does everything from sleep with his dead friend’s wife, to pick up a whore in an airport while waiting for a woman that he’d never even met. He declares it as research: heartless, objective research; but doesn’t stand very firm in this conviction.

The sex scenes, which pretty much make up the book, are enough to make one either vomit or never want to engage in sexual activity again. Chinaski is over 50 and his women are mostly younger than 25. Ick. "I tinkered with lives and souls as if they were my play things (…) A murderer was more straightforward and honest than I was. Or a rapist (236)." he admits in a crisis.

From the above review, no one would want to put themselves through this, but I loved it. I was addicted. Couldn’t get enough. It was disturbing, really. I felt nauseous every time I picked it up, but there is a raw honesty to his writing that drew me in. His philosophical musings are not only funny but also remarkably poignant and applicable. When speaking of casual sex, he says: "People with no morals often considered themselves more free, but mostly they lack the ability to feel or to love. So they became swingers. The dead fucking the dead (250)."

This piece made me feel free. Chinaski’s careless, hopeless, sadistic but anguished behavior confirms that there is no behavior code and his women’s reactions confirm that there is no end to human tolerance. This is comforting, in a strange way. There is always further to fall. Even an old, reclusive, ugly jerk can have women on their knees.

Bibliography:

Bukowski, Charles. "Women". Santa Rosa: Black Sparrow Press. 1998.