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A review by kevin_shepherd
Tales of Ordinary Madness by Charles Bukowski
4.0
For me, reading Bukowski is like driving by the site of a huge traffic accident where a flatbed semi loaded with overflowing port-a-potties just plowed into a church bus filled with aging, syphilitic prostitutes on their way to confession—you want to see it but you don’t want to see it, but you do.
Bukowski calls these short stories “fiction” but then his chief protagonist is named ‘Charles Bukowski’ so you start to think this is more autobiographical—and then he populates these vignettes with hot, sexy women who are all clamoring to sleep with ‘Charles Bukowski’—and that’s how you know, yeah, it’s fictional after all.
It’s so hard to describe how this collection of short stories made me feel. I’m saying 90% of this [stuff] is completely repulsive—we’re talking a snot pie filled with ball sweat and beans—but every once in a while there’s a tiny glimpse of recognizable decency and honesty… and then it jumps right back to ball sweat and beans.
Bukowski calls these short stories “fiction” but then his chief protagonist is named ‘Charles Bukowski’ so you start to think this is more autobiographical—and then he populates these vignettes with hot, sexy women who are all clamoring to sleep with ‘Charles Bukowski’—and that’s how you know, yeah, it’s fictional after all.
It’s so hard to describe how this collection of short stories made me feel. I’m saying 90% of this [stuff] is completely repulsive—we’re talking a snot pie filled with ball sweat and beans—but every once in a while there’s a tiny glimpse of recognizable decency and honesty… and then it jumps right back to ball sweat and beans.