Charles Bukowski vs. Henry Miller

I kept on hearing about Bukowski from friends and acquaintances; “He’s a genius, he’s so interesting, such a great writer,” people said. They said his books were full of anecdotes about drinking and women and overall debauched behaviour. Nothing wrong with that; Henry Miller wrote various masterpieces about nothing but living in poverty and having random sexual encounters. But, I was skeptical since the people that sang Bukowski’s praises either didn’t read regularly, or were pretentious and not really as smart as they made themselves out to be. Also, the kind of people that were reading Bukowski didn’t like good books, movies, or music and were often relatively shallow. So, it’s true, before reading Bukowski I was a bit biased, but what are you gonna do.
So, the book I decided to read was “Women.” I was gonna pick “Ham on Rye” because that’s the book I heard the most about, especially from this guy, but the library didn’t have it and other people I knew said Women was a “masterpiece”. So, there I was with Women.

This book is insanely simple. It feels like a grown man with a mind of a 16-year-old writing about just booze and sex. Here’s an example of this boring simplicity from page 45, “Marvin’s parents had money. He had a house down by the seashore. Marvin wrote poetry, better poetry than most. I liked Marvin.” Huh, kinda like, “See Spot run. See Jane run after Spot. Spot sits. Good dog.”

It’s funny when Bukowski’s character, Henry Chinaski, who seems to be some sort of autobiographical character, criticizes other articles. I.e. on page 16 he talks about some other author when he says “he was too far into Kafka to accomplish any kind of literary clarity.” Ha, well, you sure have clarity down, Bukowski. You have about as much as a 5 year old writing about his first day at school. I mean, sure, it’s good to have some clarity but there has to be some complexity as well in order to be interesting at all.

As for examples of his cringe-worthy prose, there are many. P. 30: “It’s hard to drink when you dance. And it’s hard to dance when you drink.” Another inane witticism can be found on p. 101: “The crowd loved knockouts. They screamed when one of the fighters was on the way out. They were landing those punches. Maybe they were punching out their bosses or their wives. Who knew? Who cared?” Ok, so the crowd is vicariously fighting people in their own lives when they’re watching a boxing match. Wow. How profound. Who cared? Yes, exactly, who the fuck cares. Here’s another one from p. 157: “She was mine. I was a conquering army, I was a rapist, I was her master, I was death.” How is he death? Fuck, is this ever pretentious. And pointless. It was funny when he wrote on page 86: “I needed water. You couldn’t live long without water.” Funny because of the kind of audience that would be reading this and actually thinking, “yes, that’s true. I need water as well so I can survive.” So stupid.

An author that actually does write thought provoking prose, and who also happens to be who Bukowski wishes he was and is trying oh so hard to be, is Henry Miller. Both authors write crass diatribes describing women in a carnal manner, but only Miller does it without coming across as mindless. Such as, in “Tropic of Cancer” on p. 5:

“I will ream out every wrinkle in your cunt, Tania, big with seed. I will send you home to your Sylvester with an ache in your belly and your womb turned inside out. Your Sylvester! Yes, he knows how to build a fire, but I know how to inflame a cunt. I shoot hot bolts in to you, Tania, I make your ovaries incandescent. Your Sylvester is a little jealous now? He feels something, does he? He feels the remnants of my big prick. I have set the shores a little wider, I have ironed out the wrinkles…” and on he goes. Crass, yes, but crass worth reading. Here’s an example of some Bukowski crass:

“Her pussy seemed to get larger. I couldn’t feel anything. It was like trying to fuck a large, loose paper bag. I was just barely touching the sides of her cunt. It was agony, it was relentless work without a reward. I felt damned.” It just seems so pointless why he’s writing this stuff. It sounds like something some ordinary guy would say while drunk and spewing anecdotes about sluts he’s slept with but not something anyone really needs to read.

As for any metaphors Bukowski attempts, well, see for yourself. Page 18:

“I opened your chest like a cabinet, it had doors, and when I opened the doors I saw all kinds of soft things inside you – teddy bears, tiny fuzzy animals, all these soft, cuddly things.”

So, she’s soft-hearted. My mind is blown. Now let’s hear a Miller metaphor, from Tropic of Cancer:

“Paris is a whore. From a distance she seems ravishing, you can’t wait until you have her in your arms. And five minutes later you feel empty, disgusted with yourself. You feel tricked.”

Not bad.

The sort of conversations Bukowski forces us to endure, are, well, shit. P. 35:

“‘Let’s fuck.’
‘I don’t know if I want to fuck.’
‘It’ll feel good. Let’s go into the bedroom.’”

It’s like a 14 year old boy trying to get into some poor girl’s pants.
Here’s some more Bukowski banter from p. 44:

“‘Yeah? Well if there’s anything worse than a whore it’s a bore.’
‘If there’s anything worse than a bore it’s a boring whore.’”

What a fucking cheesy joke.
As for Miller banter, well, that’s not really what he’s known for, but at least it doesn’t make me want to fall asleep. P. 135:

“‘I get passionate too sometimes,’ Van Norden would say.
‘Oh, you,’ says Bessie. ‘You’re just a worn out satyr. You don’t know the meaning of passion. When you get an erection you think you’re passionate.’
‘All right, maybe it’s not passion…but you can’t get passionate without having an erection, that’s true isn’t it?’”

Ok, at least it’s not unbearable.
Bukowski seems to like to name-drop; he’ll mention some writer or musician for no particular reason if not to make himself seem well-read or deep. And I HAAATE that. It comes off as pretentious and shallow since he doesn’t say anything about these artists other than basically mentioning their name. I.e. p. 54:

“Dee Dee parked and we got out. She tried one of the doors. I watched her behind wiggle as she worked at the door. I thought about Nietzsche. There we were: a German stallion and a Jewish mare. The fatherland would adore me.”

What was the point of mentioning Nietzsche? Now if you’re going to mention another artist, at least do it for a reason. Miller mentions Nietzsche himself by coincidence, but this was done with purpose within the context of his narrative. On page 245 he mentions a book that apparently Nietzsche said was the best German book and read a quote from this book that supports some idea Miller was basically free-associating about.

Now, one thing that really pissed me off about Bukowski’s book is that he kept on getting a bunch of characters in it to praise the main character, who is basically Bukowski’s personal ego-stroking minstrel. Random characters keep saying things like, “‘Chinanski, you’re one of the two or three best living poets.’” Earlier in the book someone says, “‘I think you are one of the two or three best writers of today.’” Not only is this repetitive drivel but it is self-indulgence bordering on megalomania. And it’s hilarious because Bukowski is fucking shit. In another part of the book he mentions a friend of his who is an English professor at some University. Chinaski says, “At least he taught his class plenty of Chinaski.” I couldn’t imagine any class teaching Bukowski. I mean, what is there to talk about? There are a few metaphors that are excruciatingly banal, no symbols to be found, no recurring themes, just the pretentious anecdotes of a boring alcoholic. The class would be pointless.

What a terrible book. At times Chinaski mentions booze as being a good addition to reading and writing. I tried that while reading this and still found it boring as fuck. I mean, I was wasted; I drank 12 beers and I still couldn’t get into this shit.
I give “Women” by Bukowski ZERO stars. If I bought the book instead of just taking it out of the library I would shit on it then bury it. But, apparently there is a demographic for this guy; he sells a fair amount of books. Harlequin romance novels sell a lot. Cheezy superhero movies make millions. Nickelback has millions of fans worldwide. Appeal to the lowest common denominator, I suppose.