Published on: 10/14/2025
The first time I read this book I was 21. I just got done reading it for the second time at 35. I’m surprised by the short quips of wisdom throughout. The first time I read it I was very entertained. I hadn’t ever read anything like it–a self-deprecating, anti-hero narrator who seems completely out of control of his life, yet who continuously lucks into small-scale fame and intense sexual encounters with beautiful women.
The way Chinaski constantly sabotages himself and his relationships is infuriating. It’s the type of existence lived out by self-hating addicts. But it isn’t apparent whether or not Chinaski truly hates himself. Rather, he seems confused by himself. Anytime he goes down the path of self-sabotage, he seems helpless to stop himself from reaching an impending and torrid low. And in moments of self-reflection, he seems set on somehow justifying his affairs.
Each chapter and scene, even when about a seemingly mundane event, is intense when experienced through the perspective of Chinaski. The scenes vary among being completely chaotic, sentimentally reflective, and outright depressive. But I somehow find myself continuously rooting for the dirty old man, hoping that he eventually grasps back control of his addictions. And in the end there is hope as the book wraps up with Chinaski turning down temptation to deliver himself, likely for only a brief moment, from falling back into the same evils that would have likely killed someone constituted by a less hearty disposition.
Overall, I thoroughly enjoyed my second reading. Bukowski is a master of continuing the story from one scene to the next, never giving the reader time to fully process preceding insanity.
“Once a woman turns against you, forget it. They can love you, then something turns in them. They can watch you dying in a gutter, run over by a car, and they’ll spit on you.”
“That’s the problem with drinking, I thought, as I poured myself a drink. If something bad happens you drink in an attempt to forget; if something good happens you drink in order to celebrate; and if nothing happens you drink to make something happen.”
“I didn’t bother with writing. There were times when it was best to get away from the machine. A good writer knew when not to write. Anybody could type. Not that I was a good typist; also I couldn’t spell and I didn’t know grammar. But I knew when not to write. It was like fucking. You had to rest the godhead now and then… My problem was that I couldn’t rest my cock-godhead like I could my typer-godhead. That was because women were available only in streaks so you had to get as much in as possible before somebody else’s godhead came along.”