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A review by zxcvbnmackie
Ham on Rye by Charles Bukowski
5.0
Here are the early years of Bukowski’s fictional alias Henry “Hank” Chinaski. The beginning of the book opens in the year 1922 and comes to an end in 1941. The powerful opening sentence introduces Henry as a youngster. As the novel progresses, Henry grows older and is subject to a multitude of experiences. Everything from the abusive relationship with his father, learning to be macho and tough to survive, to diving into the bottle, his time at high school, his first job, and his experience at college.
This book is a candid work of art. Each word placed flawlessly, each sentence strategic which could effortlessly stand alone, and each chapter quintessentially co-ordinated and set. The writing… Oh my, the writing. I found his no nonsense, straight to the point style to be both unapologetically honest and magnificently refreshing. Bukowski has had me belly laughing, gripped by the sadness of Henry’s experiences and inspired in way that words almost cannot articulate. An example of this inspiration arrived regarding Henry and his creation of WWI aviator, Baron Von Himmlen which has made me want to write stories of my own.
As I read this book, I couldn’t help but be frequently reminded of that program “F is for Family”. Whenever I held this book, I struggled to put it down. Every flick of the page were minutes apart, my mind like a consenting sponge soaking up the chapters. I had to convince myself to really slow down and savour this treat.
Before I continue this brown-nosing tangent, I will end things here and leave you with a few quotes that stayed with me for some reason...
“At the age of 25 most people were finished. A whole god-damned nation of assholes driving automobiles, eating, having babies, doing everything the worst way possible, like voting for the presidential candidate who reminded them most of themselves.”
“You are thirty minutes late. - Yes. - Would you be thirty minutes late to a wedding or a funeral? - No. - Why not, pray tell? - Well, if the funeral was mine I’d have to be on time. If the wedding was mine it would be my funeral.”
“I didn’t know what I wanted. Yes, I did. I wanted someplace to hide out, someplace where one didn’t have to do anything. The thought of being something didn’t only appall me, it sickened me. The thought of being a lawyer, a councilman or an engineer, anything like that, seemed impossible to me. To get married, to have children, to get trapped in the family structure. To go someplace to work every day and to return. It was impossible. To do things, simple things, to be part of family picnics, Christmas, the 4th of July, Labor Day, Mother’s Day . . . was a man born just to endure those things and then die?”
“The whole college scene was soft. They never told you what to expect out there in the world. They just crammed you with theory and never told you how hard the pavements were. A college education could destroy an individual for life. Books could make you soft. When you put them down, and really went out there, then you needed to know what they never told you.”
“The life of the sane, average man was dull, worse than death. There seemed to be no possible alternative. Education also seemed to be a trap. The little education I had allowed myself had made me more suspicious. What were doctors, lawyers, scientists? They were just men who allowed themselves to be deprived of their freedom to think and act as individuals.”
This book is a candid work of art. Each word placed flawlessly, each sentence strategic which could effortlessly stand alone, and each chapter quintessentially co-ordinated and set. The writing… Oh my, the writing. I found his no nonsense, straight to the point style to be both unapologetically honest and magnificently refreshing. Bukowski has had me belly laughing, gripped by the sadness of Henry’s experiences and inspired in way that words almost cannot articulate. An example of this inspiration arrived regarding Henry and his creation of WWI aviator, Baron Von Himmlen which has made me want to write stories of my own.
As I read this book, I couldn’t help but be frequently reminded of that program “F is for Family”. Whenever I held this book, I struggled to put it down. Every flick of the page were minutes apart, my mind like a consenting sponge soaking up the chapters. I had to convince myself to really slow down and savour this treat.
Before I continue this brown-nosing tangent, I will end things here and leave you with a few quotes that stayed with me for some reason...
“At the age of 25 most people were finished. A whole god-damned nation of assholes driving automobiles, eating, having babies, doing everything the worst way possible, like voting for the presidential candidate who reminded them most of themselves.”
“You are thirty minutes late. - Yes. - Would you be thirty minutes late to a wedding or a funeral? - No. - Why not, pray tell? - Well, if the funeral was mine I’d have to be on time. If the wedding was mine it would be my funeral.”
“I didn’t know what I wanted. Yes, I did. I wanted someplace to hide out, someplace where one didn’t have to do anything. The thought of being something didn’t only appall me, it sickened me. The thought of being a lawyer, a councilman or an engineer, anything like that, seemed impossible to me. To get married, to have children, to get trapped in the family structure. To go someplace to work every day and to return. It was impossible. To do things, simple things, to be part of family picnics, Christmas, the 4th of July, Labor Day, Mother’s Day . . . was a man born just to endure those things and then die?”
“The whole college scene was soft. They never told you what to expect out there in the world. They just crammed you with theory and never told you how hard the pavements were. A college education could destroy an individual for life. Books could make you soft. When you put them down, and really went out there, then you needed to know what they never told you.”
“The life of the sane, average man was dull, worse than death. There seemed to be no possible alternative. Education also seemed to be a trap. The little education I had allowed myself had made me more suspicious. What were doctors, lawyers, scientists? They were just men who allowed themselves to be deprived of their freedom to think and act as individuals.”