"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.
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