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Ham on Rye
In what is widely hailed as the best of his many novels, Charles Bukowski details the long, lonely years of his own hardscrabble youth in the raw voice of alter ego Henry Chinaski. From a harrowingly cheerless childhood in Germany through acne-riddled high school years and his adolescent discoveries of alcohol, women, and the Los Angeles Public Library's collection of D. H. Lawrence, "Ham on Rye" offers a crude, brutal, and savagely funny portrait of an outcast's coming-of-age during the desperate days of the Great Depression.
288 pages, Paperback
First published September 1, 1982
About the author
Charles Bukowski
774 books28.7k followersHenry Charles Bukowski (born as Heinrich Karl Bukowski) was a German-born American poet, novelist and short story writer. His writing was influenced by the social, cultural and economic ambience of his home city of Los Angeles.It is marked by an emphasis on the ordinary lives of poor Americans, the act of writing, alcohol, relationships with women and the drudgery of work. Bukowski wrote thousands of poems, hundreds of short stories and six novels, eventually publishing over sixty books
Charles Bukowski was the only child of an American soldier and a German mother. At the age of three, he came with his family to the United States and grew up in Los Angeles. He attended Los Angeles City College from 1939 to 1941, then left school and moved to New York City to become a writer. His lack of publishing success at this time caused him to give up writing in 1946 and spurred a ten-year stint of heavy drinking. After he developed a bleeding ulcer, he decided to take up writing again. He worked a wide range of jobs to support his writing, including dishwasher, truck driver and loader, mail carrier, guard, gas station attendant, stock boy, warehouse worker, shipping clerk, post office clerk, parking lot attendant, Red Cross orderly, and elevator operator. He also worked in a dog biscuit factory, a slaughterhouse, a cake and cookie factory, and he hung posters in New York City subways.
Bukowski published his first story when he was twenty-four and began writing poetry at the age of thirty-five. His first book of poetry was published in 1959; he went on to publish more than forty-five books of poetry and prose, including Pulp (1994), Screams from the Balcony (1993), and The Last Night of the Earth Poems (1992).
He died of leukemia in San Pedro on March 9, 1994.
Charles Bukowski was the only child of an American soldier and a German mother. At the age of three, he came with his family to the United States and grew up in Los Angeles. He attended Los Angeles City College from 1939 to 1941, then left school and moved to New York City to become a writer. His lack of publishing success at this time caused him to give up writing in 1946 and spurred a ten-year stint of heavy drinking. After he developed a bleeding ulcer, he decided to take up writing again. He worked a wide range of jobs to support his writing, including dishwasher, truck driver and loader, mail carrier, guard, gas station attendant, stock boy, warehouse worker, shipping clerk, post office clerk, parking lot attendant, Red Cross orderly, and elevator operator. He also worked in a dog biscuit factory, a slaughterhouse, a cake and cookie factory, and he hung posters in New York City subways.
Bukowski published his first story when he was twenty-four and began writing poetry at the age of thirty-five. His first book of poetry was published in 1959; he went on to publish more than forty-five books of poetry and prose, including Pulp (1994), Screams from the Balcony (1993), and The Last Night of the Earth Poems (1992).
He died of leukemia in San Pedro on March 9, 1994.
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August 29, 2008
So what is a middle-class old woman who seldom drinks and never fights doing reading this book?
Enjoying the hell out of it.
Enjoying the hell out of it.
June 6, 2024
There is this eminent poem by Philip Larkin:
“They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had and add some extra, just for you. But they were fucked up in their turn by fools in old-style hats and coats, who half the time were soppy-stern and half at one another’s throats.”
And everything in Ham on Rye develops under this scenario…
So the mournful bitterness of his childhood turned Henry Chinaski – that is Charles Bukowski – into an impenitent and cynical insurgent for life.
Ham on Rye is a merciless and graphic story – a real death sentence to smug philistines.
And there is always the one who wants to stay outside the herd…
“They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had and add some extra, just for you. But they were fucked up in their turn by fools in old-style hats and coats, who half the time were soppy-stern and half at one another’s throats.”
And everything in Ham on Rye develops under this scenario…
So, that’s what they wanted: lies. Beautiful lies. That’s what they needed. People were fools. It was going to be easy for me.
So the mournful bitterness of his childhood turned Henry Chinaski – that is Charles Bukowski – into an impenitent and cynical insurgent for life.
I was like a turd that drew flies instead of like a flower that butterflies and bees desired.
Ham on Rye is a merciless and graphic story – a real death sentence to smug philistines.
At the age of twenty five most people were finished. A whole god-damned nation of assholes driving automobiles, eating, having babies, doing everything in the worst way possible, like voting for the presidential candidate who reminded them most of themselves.
And there is always the one who wants to stay outside the herd…
February 10, 2017
I was sixteen, tan, blonde and good looking, catching waves on my yellow surfboard along with all the other surfers, handsome guys and beautiful gals, each and every day that summer. Little did I know this mini-heaven would quickly end and hell would begin in September. Why? My smooth-skinned tan face turned into an acne-filled mess. I suffered pimple by pimple for three years straight; many fat red pimples popping up every day. Oh, yeah, on my forehead, temples, cheeks, jaw, chin and nose. Unlike Charles Bukowski, my father never beat me as a kid but this was one thing I did have in common with Bukowski – being a teenager with a wicked case of acne. You can read all about his in this novel, Ham and Rye. Bukowski said, “The gods have really put a good shield over me man. I’ve been toughened up at the right time and the right place." Maybe this was part of my own toughening up, those three teenage years of enduring the red face fire of acne.
Anyway, this is one of my connections with Bukowski, the king of the hill when it comes to American raw-boned, hard-boiled, tough-guy writers. And this novel of his years as a kid and teenager growing up in a house where he was continually beaten with a leather strap and receiving a torrent of emotional abuses, particularly at the hands of his callous, obsessive father, sets the stage for his alcoholic, hardscrabble adulthood, an adulthood where, other than drinking, his sole refuge from childhood memories of cruelty and his ongoing life on the down-and-out edge was sitting at his typewriter composing poetry and fiction.
Ham on Rye. Every single sentence of this book is clear, vivid, sharp and direct, as if the words were bullets shot from a 22 caliber rifle. Here are just a few rounds: ““Words weren’t dull, words were things that could make your mind hum. If you read them and let yourself feel the magic, you could live without pain, with hope, no matter what happened to you.” Again, “I didn't like anybody in that school. I think they knew that. I think that's why they disliked me. I didn't like the way they walked or looked or talked, but I didn't like my mother or father either. I still had the feeling of being surrounded by white empty space. There was always a slight nausea in my stomach.” And, again. “The best thing about the bedroom was the bed. I liked to stay in bed for hours, even during the day with covers pulled up to my chin. It was good in there, nothing ever occurred in there, no people, nothing.”
Ham on Rye. There are funny, belly-laughing scenes and scenes that will make you shudder, scenes that are tender and scenes filled with pain, but through it all, you will stick with Hank Chinaski aka Charles Bukowski, the ultimate tough-guy with the heart of a poet.
November 17, 2007
It is true that Ham on Rye lacks a serious plot. It is also true that Mr. Bukowski writes in a crude, whiskey soaked style. However, the novel makes up for its deficiencies with a well-honed theme on the bullshit realities of middle-class existence and the ugly truth of how our society deals with those who reject that path. Such a novel should necessarily cause the reader to taste a tinge of bile in his or her throat. If you don't finish the book weary and angry, then you missed the point. As to the comments below that disparage Mr. Bukowski as a mean-spirited asshole, I ask you to consider four possibilities: 1) you misread his skid row saintliness as something distasteful; 2) you forget that Mr. Bukowski wrote a novel, not a memoir; 3) you judge his offensive comments in a vacuum instead of its time and place; or 4) you are comfortable with the mediocrity shit can of existence that he laments.
January 8, 2013
Up until recently, all I knew about Charles Bukowski was what I learned in one of my all time favorite films, ‘Barfly,’ staring the incomparable Mickey Rourke as our antihero Henry Chinaski. If you haven’t seen it, you should remedy that immediately: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SrpTDa...
This is a world where everybodys gotta do something, gotta be something... sometimes I just get tired of thinking of all the things that I don't wanna do.. that I don't wanna be
***
Henry Chinaski is a bit of a dick. He doesn’t care about you, your causes, your morals, your dignity… he doesn’t give a shit about anything but Henry Chinaski. And I’m not even so sure about that…
I know it might sound odd coming from me, but I can totally relate to Henry. Don’t get me wrong, saying I can relate to Henry doesn’t mean that I approve of him and all his bravado, but I can relate. I can relate to his shitty childhood and his asociality and his lack of drive to “be somebody.” I’ll refrain from getting too personal here, but I can say that he can thank his lucky stars for one thing: he wasn’t born a girl.
Ham on Rye follows our dear Henry from a childhood scarred by abuse and isolation through the muddy waters of adolescence to young adulthood. He eschews mainstream culture and all that it stands for, and really, who can blame him? By the end, part of me wanted to forget about all of this ‘responsibility’ nonsense and join him at the bar. Why? Because f*ck you. That’s why.
Bukowski isn’t for everyone. Actually, let me go out on a limb here and say Bukowski isn’t for most people. But if you’ve been lucky enough to have struggled through childhood and adolescence and come out on the other end a little stronger, a little smarter, a little thicker skinned, then maybe, just maybe, Bukowski is for you.
Then again, maybe not. I'm sure Bukowski doesn't give a shit either way, and honestly, neither do I.
***
I raise my glass to you, Henry. To you and all my frieeeeennnddds!!!!!!!!!!!(Barfly joke).
***
Watch this scene -- when Henry walks over to Wanda, look who he passes at the bar: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E5OLVi...
Wanda: I can't stand people. I hate them. Do you hate them?
Henry: No. But I seem to feel better when they're not around...
July 13, 2017
Δυο βράδια κράτησε αυτό το ταξίδι και είχα την πεποίθηση πως συζητώ αλλά περισσότερο ακούω με απόλυτο σεβασμό για τη ζωή ενός μοναχικού μου φίλου.
Τρομερή αμεσότητα και φοβερό ταλέντο προσήλωσης προς τον αποδέκτη των λόγων του.
Ακόμη κι αν δεν έχεις σκεφτεί ποτε τη δική του εκδοχή, την απαράλλαχτη γνώμη του ή την κοσμοθεωρία του σε σχέση με την ύπαρξη και την εξέλιξη του ανθρώπινου είδους στα σίγουρα θα πειστείς πως ο δικός του οίστρος προς την ματαιότητα ειναι τελικά ο πραγματικός.
Λυπήθηκα τους ανθρώπους και τη μιζέρια τους αλλά δεν ένιωσα καμία απολύτως θλίψη για τον αγαπημένο μου "φίλο" μιας και μέσα από αυτήν την εξομολόγηση της δικής του ζωής όσο τραγικά, οδυνηρά, αστεία,τρυφερά και κυνικά ήταν ολα τα περιστατικά,ο ίδιος ήταν πάντα ο ελεύθερος πολιορκημένος, ο ασυμβίβαστα ενοχικός, ο κυνικός ονειροπόλος,ο σκληρός ιππότης, ο εραστής της ομορφιάς που περιτριγυρίζεται μόνο από ασχήμιες.
"....γιατί μια αλήθεια που σου τη λένε για πρώτη φορά μπορεί να ειναι πολύ αστεία. Όταν η αλήθεια κάποιου άλλου ειναι ίδια με τη δική σου την αλήθεια, και ειναι σαν να τη λέει αποκλειστικά σε εσένα,τότε ειναι μεγαλείο ".
Συστήνεται ανεπιφύλακτα.
Καλή ανάγνωση!!
Πολλούς ασπασμούς!
Τρομερή αμεσότητα και φοβερό ταλέντο προσήλωσης προς τον αποδέκτη των λόγων του.
Ακόμη κι αν δεν έχεις σκεφτεί ποτε τη δική του εκδοχή, την απαράλλαχτη γνώμη του ή την κοσμοθεωρία του σε σχέση με την ύπαρξη και την εξέλιξη του ανθρώπινου είδους στα σίγουρα θα πειστείς πως ο δικός του οίστρος προς την ματαιότητα ειναι τελικά ο πραγματικός.
Λυπήθηκα τους ανθρώπους και τη μιζέρια τους αλλά δεν ένιωσα καμία απολύτως θλίψη για τον αγαπημένο μου "φίλο" μιας και μέσα από αυτήν την εξομολόγηση της δικής του ζωής όσο τραγικά, οδυνηρά, αστεία,τρυφερά και κυνικά ήταν ολα τα περιστατικά,ο ίδιος ήταν πάντα ο ελεύθερος πολιορκημένος, ο ασυμβίβαστα ενοχικός, ο κυνικός ονειροπόλος,ο σκληρός ιππότης, ο εραστής της ομορφιάς που περιτριγυρίζεται μόνο από ασχήμιες.
"....γιατί μια αλήθεια που σου τη λένε για πρώτη φορά μπορεί να ειναι πολύ αστεία. Όταν η αλήθεια κάποιου άλλου ειναι ίδια με τη δική σου την αλήθεια, και ειναι σαν να τη λέει αποκλειστικά σε εσένα,τότε ειναι μεγαλείο ".
Συστήνεται ανεπιφύλακτα.
Καλή ανάγνωση!!
Πολλούς ασπασμούς!
April 4, 2017
Update: $1.99 Kindle special today --- Its not for everyone -- but I thought it was fantastic! -- I own it -- and couldn't pull away from it the first time I read it. I'd suggest reading high and low reviews. Then trust your gut! Its 'based' on a true story --but written as a novel.
"I had begun to dislike my father. He was always angry about something.
Wherever we went he got into arguments with people. But he didn't appear to frighten most people; they just stared at him, calmly, and he became more furious. If we ate out, which was seldom, he always found something wrong with the food and sometimes refuse to pay. "There's flyshit in this whipped cream! What the hell kind of place is this?"
"I'm sorry, sir, you needn't pay. Just leave."
"I'll leave, all right! But I'll be back! I'll burn this god-damned place down!
Yep, a real mensch of a father Henry Chinaski had.
From a very young age -- Henry was spoon fed...."children are seen and not to be heard". ( one of the more 'kind' things that came out of his father's mouth).
"Ham on Rye" alternates between being hilarious and horrendous.
The beatings from his father were so awful -- that just saying "this kid survived physical abuse in his insane - crazy dysfunctional household is not enough...( I felt so angry)!!!
His father was fucking brutal. The son-of-a-bitch deserved to be locked up for life.
So? What was hilarious?
Having acne and a gutless submissive mother--who can't stand up for Henry or herself isn't funny....
but Henry's cynicism is often funny...
It was very funny ( and cute), when Henry's little classmate, Lila Jane, ( a pretty girl), was proud of her clean pink panties - or blue ones--wanted to offer afternoon 'show and tell' for Henry's pleasure ....
however...this was the depression era in America ---Henry wasn't allowed to fulfill his other desires ... so he was often sexually frustrated. ('not' so funny)...but human.
The storytelling is wonderful ... It has everything...hitting us with a wide rage of emotions.
Terrific coming of age book involving family, school, other kids, teachers, struggles to survive --barely escaping poverty...Henry's anger, aloneness, rebelliousness, soooo much sadness it hurts....but also something beautiful was developing: Henry's love for literature. His time spent in the library reading D.H. Lawrence, Sinclair Lewis...etc.... 'He did that'!!! Awwww and what a phenomenal writer Charles Bukowski is. I'm aware this book is loosely based on his life story...but I read it as fiction!
The humanity in this book is extraordinary!!!!! I loved this book!!!!
"I had begun to dislike my father. He was always angry about something.
Wherever we went he got into arguments with people. But he didn't appear to frighten most people; they just stared at him, calmly, and he became more furious. If we ate out, which was seldom, he always found something wrong with the food and sometimes refuse to pay. "There's flyshit in this whipped cream! What the hell kind of place is this?"
"I'm sorry, sir, you needn't pay. Just leave."
"I'll leave, all right! But I'll be back! I'll burn this god-damned place down!
Yep, a real mensch of a father Henry Chinaski had.
From a very young age -- Henry was spoon fed...."children are seen and not to be heard". ( one of the more 'kind' things that came out of his father's mouth).
"Ham on Rye" alternates between being hilarious and horrendous.
The beatings from his father were so awful -- that just saying "this kid survived physical abuse in his insane - crazy dysfunctional household is not enough...( I felt so angry)!!!
His father was fucking brutal. The son-of-a-bitch deserved to be locked up for life.
So? What was hilarious?
Having acne and a gutless submissive mother--who can't stand up for Henry or herself isn't funny....
but Henry's cynicism is often funny...
It was very funny ( and cute), when Henry's little classmate, Lila Jane, ( a pretty girl), was proud of her clean pink panties - or blue ones--wanted to offer afternoon 'show and tell' for Henry's pleasure ....
however...this was the depression era in America ---Henry wasn't allowed to fulfill his other desires ... so he was often sexually frustrated. ('not' so funny)...but human.
The storytelling is wonderful ... It has everything...hitting us with a wide rage of emotions.
Terrific coming of age book involving family, school, other kids, teachers, struggles to survive --barely escaping poverty...Henry's anger, aloneness, rebelliousness, soooo much sadness it hurts....but also something beautiful was developing: Henry's love for literature. His time spent in the library reading D.H. Lawrence, Sinclair Lewis...etc.... 'He did that'!!! Awwww and what a phenomenal writer Charles Bukowski is. I'm aware this book is loosely based on his life story...but I read it as fiction!
The humanity in this book is extraordinary!!!!! I loved this book!!!!
August 24, 2020
The ultimate non-conformist
Wow. This is really something else. I was somewhat prepared for this after seeing the film "Barfly" which was based on Bukowski's alcoholic, pessimistic lifestyle - screenplay written by Charles Bukowski himself. But wow.
Bukowski, with Faye Dunaway and Mickey Rourke on the set of Barfly
Instead of Ham on Rye, this book should have been titled: "How I Became a Raging Drunk". Heavily autobiographical, this novel follows Bukowski's literary alter-ego Henry Chinaski through childhood and adolescence, and it isn't pretty.
“Everything was eternally dreary, dismal, damned. Even the weather was insolent and bitchy.”
Described as "the godfather of dirty realism", and fitting into the category of "transgressive fiction", Bukowski is a miserable sonofabitch who you can count on to a) not fit in, b) be unemployed, c) be drunk if at all possible, and d) get into a fist fight with someone double his size at any opportunity.
He's lazy, he's depressed, he's mean, he's negative. He puts close to zero effort into life. And let's not even start on his attitude towards women.
“But I didn't want to be anything anyhow. And I was certainly succeeding.”
At the same point though, you can't help but feel for the guy, because you can see why he became the person he is - he never got any love. His father beat him for no reason. His mother never protected him. His world was so harsh, poor, with no soft place to land, no light at the end of the tunnel. In his adolescence he suffered terribly from acne. No one wanted to look at him, let alone touch him.
In addition to the pathos, there's humour in these pages too. You sort of can't believe what you're reading - these crude, frank remembrances of a boy who calls it like he sees it. On family, poverty, the bleakness of working life, the salvation of the written word.
The miracle of all this is that someone so entrenched in his alcoholism and pessimism, someone who was punched in the head countless times, someone with no interest in being part of society and who had in fact, tremendous distain for those who were... the miracle is that this person, born a century ago, has had such a lasting effect on the literary world. I'm boggled that he was able to accomplish anything at all. The reality is, Charles Bukowski was a prolific poet and writer and, love him or hate him, his voice resonates for many. His disappointment with life, and people. His refusal to conform.
I'm glad that he didn't completely throw in the towel. I'm glad that time and time again, he turned to his typewriter, even if it was just to express another lament:
“Why is it always only a matter of choosing between something bad and something worse?”
Wow. This is really something else. I was somewhat prepared for this after seeing the film "Barfly" which was based on Bukowski's alcoholic, pessimistic lifestyle - screenplay written by Charles Bukowski himself. But wow.
Bukowski, with Faye Dunaway and Mickey Rourke on the set of BarflyInstead of Ham on Rye, this book should have been titled: "How I Became a Raging Drunk". Heavily autobiographical, this novel follows Bukowski's literary alter-ego Henry Chinaski through childhood and adolescence, and it isn't pretty.
“Everything was eternally dreary, dismal, damned. Even the weather was insolent and bitchy.”
Described as "the godfather of dirty realism", and fitting into the category of "transgressive fiction", Bukowski is a miserable sonofabitch who you can count on to a) not fit in, b) be unemployed, c) be drunk if at all possible, and d) get into a fist fight with someone double his size at any opportunity.
He's lazy, he's depressed, he's mean, he's negative. He puts close to zero effort into life. And let's not even start on his attitude towards women.
“But I didn't want to be anything anyhow. And I was certainly succeeding.”
At the same point though, you can't help but feel for the guy, because you can see why he became the person he is - he never got any love. His father beat him for no reason. His mother never protected him. His world was so harsh, poor, with no soft place to land, no light at the end of the tunnel. In his adolescence he suffered terribly from acne. No one wanted to look at him, let alone touch him.
In addition to the pathos, there's humour in these pages too. You sort of can't believe what you're reading - these crude, frank remembrances of a boy who calls it like he sees it. On family, poverty, the bleakness of working life, the salvation of the written word.
The miracle of all this is that someone so entrenched in his alcoholism and pessimism, someone who was punched in the head countless times, someone with no interest in being part of society and who had in fact, tremendous distain for those who were... the miracle is that this person, born a century ago, has had such a lasting effect on the literary world. I'm boggled that he was able to accomplish anything at all. The reality is, Charles Bukowski was a prolific poet and writer and, love him or hate him, his voice resonates for many. His disappointment with life, and people. His refusal to conform.
I'm glad that he didn't completely throw in the towel. I'm glad that time and time again, he turned to his typewriter, even if it was just to express another lament:
“Why is it always only a matter of choosing between something bad and something worse?”
March 4, 2023
“I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me”—Hunter Thompson
“And my own affairs were as bad, as dismal, as the day I had been born. The only difference was that now I could drink now and then, though never often enough. Drink was the only thing that kept a man from feeling forever stunned and useless. Everything else just kept picking and picking, hacking away. And nothing was interesting, nothing. The people were restrictive and careful, all alike. And I've got to live with these fuckers for the rest of my life, I thought. God, they all had assholes and sexual organs and their mouths and their armpits. They shit and they chattered and they were dull as horse dung. The girls looked good from a distance, the sun shining through their dresses, their hair. But get up close and listen to their minds running out of their mouths, you felt like digging in under a hill and hiding out with a tommy-gun. I would certainly never be able to be happy, to get married, I could never have children. Hell, I couldn't even get a job as a dishwasher”—Bukowski
If the above paragraph offends you—and I admit it could maybe offend on various levels—then Bukowski is not for you. But this autobiographical novel focused on Henry Chinaski’s early years up until Pearl Harbor, has a kind of breathless drive and hilarity, with fresh working-class boy language. Henry is bullied, beaten by his bastard father, gets into multiple fights, lusts after girls, gets in trouble in school constantly. He grows up poor, with severe acne that develops into boils, so he’s early on looking like a loser with only losers for friends. Later he becomes a good boxer, but early on he fails at sports. He makes it through high school and college, but barely, as an English major, though he sometimes gets kicked out of classes:
“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.”
It’s for a time mainly fighting and drinking that give him any kind of solace:
“Getting drunk was good. I decided that I would always like getting drunk. It took away the obvious and maybe if you could get away from the obvious often enough, you wouldn't become so obvious yourself.”
Chinaski finds reading as a resource, and he reads everything, respecting mainly straight-shooting guys like Hemingway. Unpretentious writers not of privileged classes.
“First paycheck I get, I thought, I'm going to get myself a room near the downtown L.A. Public Library.”
Finally, he finds solace in writing, which gets him thrown out of his house by his father, but:
“It was a joy! Words weren't dull, words were things that could make your mind hum. If you read them and let yourself feel the magic, you could live without pain, with hope, no matter what happened to you.”
But he is still deeply cynical, hates almost everything and everyone:
“The problem was you had to keep choosing between one evil or another, and no matter what you chose, they sliced a little more off you, until there was nothing left. At the age of 25 most people were finished. A whole goddamned nation of assholes driving automobiles, eating, having babies, doing everything in the worst way possible, like voting for the presidential candidate who reminded them most of themselves.”
So Chinaski sounds arrogant in his loathing everything around him, but he saves a great deal of tie self-loathing, too:
“I often stood in front of the mirror alone, wondering how ugly a person could get.”
and
“I made practice runs down to skid row to get ready for my future.”
“Maybe I'd be a bank robber. Some god-damned thing. Something with flare, fire. You only had one shot. Why be a window washer?”
Bukowski in this book is Hunter Thompson without the political black humor, with even greater nihilism, maybe, humorous without principles, living an early life of darkness shaped by his father and getting beaten up by everyone. This guy may not be the best American writer, but he is a very good one, at his best. At his best he is astonishingly honest and unsentimental. It was a great read. I laughed a lot.
“And my own affairs were as bad, as dismal, as the day I had been born. The only difference was that now I could drink now and then, though never often enough. Drink was the only thing that kept a man from feeling forever stunned and useless. Everything else just kept picking and picking, hacking away. And nothing was interesting, nothing. The people were restrictive and careful, all alike. And I've got to live with these fuckers for the rest of my life, I thought. God, they all had assholes and sexual organs and their mouths and their armpits. They shit and they chattered and they were dull as horse dung. The girls looked good from a distance, the sun shining through their dresses, their hair. But get up close and listen to their minds running out of their mouths, you felt like digging in under a hill and hiding out with a tommy-gun. I would certainly never be able to be happy, to get married, I could never have children. Hell, I couldn't even get a job as a dishwasher”—Bukowski
If the above paragraph offends you—and I admit it could maybe offend on various levels—then Bukowski is not for you. But this autobiographical novel focused on Henry Chinaski’s early years up until Pearl Harbor, has a kind of breathless drive and hilarity, with fresh working-class boy language. Henry is bullied, beaten by his bastard father, gets into multiple fights, lusts after girls, gets in trouble in school constantly. He grows up poor, with severe acne that develops into boils, so he’s early on looking like a loser with only losers for friends. Later he becomes a good boxer, but early on he fails at sports. He makes it through high school and college, but barely, as an English major, though he sometimes gets kicked out of classes:
“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.”
It’s for a time mainly fighting and drinking that give him any kind of solace:
“Getting drunk was good. I decided that I would always like getting drunk. It took away the obvious and maybe if you could get away from the obvious often enough, you wouldn't become so obvious yourself.”
Chinaski finds reading as a resource, and he reads everything, respecting mainly straight-shooting guys like Hemingway. Unpretentious writers not of privileged classes.
“First paycheck I get, I thought, I'm going to get myself a room near the downtown L.A. Public Library.”
Finally, he finds solace in writing, which gets him thrown out of his house by his father, but:
“It was a joy! Words weren't dull, words were things that could make your mind hum. If you read them and let yourself feel the magic, you could live without pain, with hope, no matter what happened to you.”
But he is still deeply cynical, hates almost everything and everyone:
“The problem was you had to keep choosing between one evil or another, and no matter what you chose, they sliced a little more off you, until there was nothing left. At the age of 25 most people were finished. A whole goddamned nation of assholes driving automobiles, eating, having babies, doing everything in the worst way possible, like voting for the presidential candidate who reminded them most of themselves.”
So Chinaski sounds arrogant in his loathing everything around him, but he saves a great deal of tie self-loathing, too:
“I often stood in front of the mirror alone, wondering how ugly a person could get.”
and
“I made practice runs down to skid row to get ready for my future.”
“Maybe I'd be a bank robber. Some god-damned thing. Something with flare, fire. You only had one shot. Why be a window washer?”
Bukowski in this book is Hunter Thompson without the political black humor, with even greater nihilism, maybe, humorous without principles, living an early life of darkness shaped by his father and getting beaten up by everyone. This guy may not be the best American writer, but he is a very good one, at his best. At his best he is astonishingly honest and unsentimental. It was a great read. I laughed a lot.
July 18, 2024
A lo que yo alcanzo, este es el libro más político de su autor, aunque su pesimismo, amén de su misantropía, su misoginia y su homofobia, le alejara de cualquier compromiso con causa alguna (como dice en uno de sus poemas “La gente que cree en la Política/ es como la gente que cree en dios…no hay dios/no hay política/no hay paz/no hay amor/no hay control/no hay proyecto”).
“A la edad de 25 la mayoría de la gente estaba acabada. Todo un maldito país repleto de gilipollas conduciendo automóviles, comiendo, pariendo niños, haciéndolo todo de la peor manera posible, como votar por el candidato presidencial que más les recordaba a ellos mismos”Sin embargo, Bukowski expone aquí con una sencillez aplastante las trampas del discurso neoliberal, empezando por la primera y fundamental, “América es la gran tierra de la Oportunidad y cualquier hombre o mujer que lo desee tendrá éxito”. Por un lado, Bukowski nos advierte de que “Siempre había alguien controlando quién podía tener una oportunidad y quién no”, lo cual, incomprensiblemente, no empuja a la gente a rebelarse contra ese que controla las oportunidades, sino contra los inferiores que pelean también por la suya. El otro punto crucial de la frase, que el esfuerzo garantiza el éxito, es contestado por Bukowski con una sencilla evidencia: “los pobres normalmente permanecen en la pobreza”. Por mucho que se desgañiten gritándolo todos aquellos que empezaron sus vidas desde posiciones privilegiadas, el esfuerzo por sí solo no es casi nunca suficiente y el origen familiar es el factor más determinante de la pobreza o la riqueza futura de los individuos.
La segunda idea, prácticamente un corolario de la anterior, Bukowski la resume con estas palabras: “Mis padres querían ser ricos así que se imaginaban ser ricos”. Una aspiración que los lleva a favorecer la posiciones políticas de esos ricos de los que, suponen erróneamente, llegaran a formar parte no tardando mucho, y en contra de los más desfavorecidos, esto es, en contra de sus propios intereses. Es más, esos ricos han conseguido que muchos de esos desfavorecidos lleguen a pensar que recibir ayudas del estado es humillante (aunque esos mismos ricos peleen por las subvencionen a sus empresas), de la misma forma que en el barrio de Chinaski “Cualquiera que fuera visto con un paraguas o un impermeable era considerado un mariquita”.
“Coge la familia, mézclala con Dios y la Nación, añade diez horas de trabajo diario, y tienes todo lo que necesitas”No es de extrañar que es este mundo sin futuro, Chinaski, como muchos jóvenes en la actualidad, llegue a pensar cosas del tipo “Yo no tenía Libertad. No tenía nada. Con Hitler quizás obtuviera un coño de cuando en cuando y una paga semanal de más de un dólar”. Una posición que en plena SGM para él tenía además el atractivo de enfrentarle a la hipócrita sociedad que detestaba y le oprimía y que, en realidad, tampoco distaba tanto del pensamiento nazi.
“(servicios médicos) Experimentaban con los pobres y, si funcionaba, utilizaban el tratamiento con los ricos. Y si no funcionaba, aún había un montón de pobres para experimentar sobre ellos”Chinaski, sabiendo que nunca llegaría a ser un triunfador, se esfuerza por ser justo lo contrario (“El pensamiento de llegar a ser alguien no sólo no me atraía sino que me enfermaba”), una inclinación que le forzaba a un aislamiento casi total, intensificado por dos circunstancias, un acné monstruoso por todo el cuerpo y que le desfiguró la cara, y el empeño de su padre por mandarle a un instituto de ricos en el que Chinaski asistía cada día a un estatus de vida que nunca sería capaz de alcanzar.
“Los odié. Odié su belleza, su juventud sin problemas, y mientras los miraba danzar a través de los remansos de luz mágicamente coloreada, abrazándose entre ellos, sintiéndose tan bien, como niños inmaculados en gracia temporal, los odié porque tenían algo que yo aún desconocía…”Los barrios bajos eran desagradables; la vida del hombre normal tediosa; la educación, una trampa que te acababa privando de la libertad de pensar y actuar por ti mismo; le tenía cariño a su cuerpo lleno de cicatrices y marcas, el suicidio quedaba descartado. Solo quedaba la soledad como refugio y el alcohol, los libros y la música sinfónica como únicas compañías. Empezó a escribir, se inventaba personajes que le hacían sentirse menos solo.
“Un hombre siempre necesita a alguien. No había nadie a mi alrededor, así que tenía que construirme alguno, crearlo como debiera de ser realmente un hombre. No era una cuestión de creérmelo o fantasear, sino de no vivir la vida sin un hombre de ese tipo alrededor”Y este es el milagro Chinaski, criado en una familia con un padre amargado y maltratador y una madre que lo consentía y se ponía siempre de su lado, ambos analfabetos culturales e ideológicamente reaccionarios, pudo surgir un chaval con tales ideas y tales aficiones, alguien que ya desde sus primeras lecturas se decantó por escritores de la talla de Upton Sinclair, D.H. Lawrence, Sinclair Lewis o Sherwood Anderson, de los que llegaba a leer un libro cada día.
“Las palabras no eran abstrusas sino cosas que hacían vibrar tu mente. Si las leías y permitías que su hechizo te embargara, podías vivir sin dolor, con esperanza, sin importarte lo que pudiera sucederte”En definitiva, la mejor senda hacia la literatura directa, sencilla, honesta y descarnada de Charles Bukowski y una de las mejores novelas que he leído sobre la pesadilla que es para muchos el sueño americano.
August 8, 2016
Ham on Rye is flanked by sauces of happenstance and its delectability depends on the preferences of one’s reading tongue. Mine, for one, could not bear its sour, unsavoury ingredients.
In this bildungsroman, which is semi-autobiographical too, the protagonist, Henry Chinaski loads his bag of dilemma and expletives, and throws its weight around with nonchalance and non-disruptive disdain. The backdrop of the Great Depression, fuels the negative sentiments and Chinaski finds its shackles, throughout the novel, difficult to break away from.
This was my first Bukowski and it didn’t go entirely uneventful, thankfully. His brazenness and indifference met in a heady concoction, sending a mild swagger across the reading eye. His treatment of his family, friends, school, job and life at large, wasn’t without a stream of empathy which was successfully evoked with some explosive arrangement of words. Of his hopeless friends, he said,
It appears that Bukowski’s life was way bitter and the taste nailed anger and anguish into his deepest cores. But perhaps, he didn’t write this book to shed those rusty flakes. He wrote to keep them alive. Almost like a protest, like a defiance. And under my reading lens, that defiance grappled without inspiration.
In this bildungsroman, which is semi-autobiographical too, the protagonist, Henry Chinaski loads his bag of dilemma and expletives, and throws its weight around with nonchalance and non-disruptive disdain. The backdrop of the Great Depression, fuels the negative sentiments and Chinaski finds its shackles, throughout the novel, difficult to break away from.
This was my first Bukowski and it didn’t go entirely uneventful, thankfully. His brazenness and indifference met in a heady concoction, sending a mild swagger across the reading eye. His treatment of his family, friends, school, job and life at large, wasn’t without a stream of empathy which was successfully evoked with some explosive arrangement of words. Of his hopeless friends, he said,
It looked like it was my destiny to travel in their company through life. That didn’t bother me so much as the fact that I seemed irresistible to these dull idiot fellows. I was like a turd that drew flies instead of like a flower that butterflies and bees desired.The charms of the initial dilemmas and Chinaski’s attempts (or non-attempts) to fathom them, drowned into a sea of booze for the better part of the book. Nothing mattered as long as drinking was an option and the young Chinaski held nothing beyond the tinted bottle. Purposelessness pervaded the pages like a rigid plague and Bukowski’s pen remained, painfully, under-qualified to bulk up nothing. A case of plot and prose, pulling each other down.
It appears that Bukowski’s life was way bitter and the taste nailed anger and anguish into his deepest cores. But perhaps, he didn’t write this book to shed those rusty flakes. He wrote to keep them alive. Almost like a protest, like a defiance. And under my reading lens, that defiance grappled without inspiration.
April 27, 2011
My life did not resemble Henry Chinaski's. No abusive father here. No ritualized beatings. No helpless mother. No culture of fighting. One lost fight was enough to teach me the purposelessness of all that. I liked school. Not that I go to the reunions. Sure there was the pimply phase, but nothing like the scourge of boils that rendered Henry a monster.
And yet...and yet...
Something rang so true reading this book. The sense of alienation. The understanding of the absurdity of it all. The rejection of class and mores. The resort to isolation. Somehow I got to the same godless, cynical place, where I can look back with a sense of inevitability.
You know how you pick a book up, flip a few pages, read the first sentence, perhaps, or a few strands of dialogue to get a sense of whether it will be worth the effort? I did that here and thought this would be trite, unsatisfying and nihilistic. But I bought it anyhow, couldn't put it down and feel that I've learned something about myself from reading about someone who isn't like me at all.
And yet...and yet...
Something rang so true reading this book. The sense of alienation. The understanding of the absurdity of it all. The rejection of class and mores. The resort to isolation. Somehow I got to the same godless, cynical place, where I can look back with a sense of inevitability.
You know how you pick a book up, flip a few pages, read the first sentence, perhaps, or a few strands of dialogue to get a sense of whether it will be worth the effort? I did that here and thought this would be trite, unsatisfying and nihilistic. But I bought it anyhow, couldn't put it down and feel that I've learned something about myself from reading about someone who isn't like me at all.
August 26, 2020
A masterpiece of ennui, isolationism and vulgarity.
Charles Bukowski’s 1982 semi-autobiographical coming of age story made me laugh, cringe and contemplate humanity – sometimes all on the same page.
Using as a vehicle his pseudonym and literary alter-ego Henry Chinaski, we follow the early years of a boy and young man who is outcast from society. Born in Germany after the first world war, he moves with his family to Los Angeles. The Chinaski’s are poverty stricken as are many during the depression years and young Hank grows up tough due in large part to his social ostracization and violent father.
What Bukowski has done is to reveal in Hank a universal dissatisfaction with the world order, an affirmative rejection of society and a determinism to escape what he sees as a hostile, meaningless culture.
Yet Bukowski does not so much embrace nihilism as just a robust resistance to a world that does not want him. He finds escape in music, literature, alcohol and casual violence. Though he longs for seedy sexual adventures, Bukowski describes Hank’s deep-seated ideas about right and wrong and even a fundamental propriety.
Not for everyone, but for those who are not easily offended, a hidden gem.
Charles Bukowski’s 1982 semi-autobiographical coming of age story made me laugh, cringe and contemplate humanity – sometimes all on the same page.
Using as a vehicle his pseudonym and literary alter-ego Henry Chinaski, we follow the early years of a boy and young man who is outcast from society. Born in Germany after the first world war, he moves with his family to Los Angeles. The Chinaski’s are poverty stricken as are many during the depression years and young Hank grows up tough due in large part to his social ostracization and violent father.
What Bukowski has done is to reveal in Hank a universal dissatisfaction with the world order, an affirmative rejection of society and a determinism to escape what he sees as a hostile, meaningless culture.
Yet Bukowski does not so much embrace nihilism as just a robust resistance to a world that does not want him. He finds escape in music, literature, alcohol and casual violence. Though he longs for seedy sexual adventures, Bukowski describes Hank’s deep-seated ideas about right and wrong and even a fundamental propriety.
Not for everyone, but for those who are not easily offended, a hidden gem.
August 12, 2023
"The first thing I remember is being under something."
So begins this chronicle of the dirty old man's humble beginnings, his formative years, and the myriad oppressions he endured throughout his childhood, adolescence, and early adult life. In the most literal sense, this opening line represents baby Hank's first concrete memory, but it also sets the tone for the entire memoir to come. Dedicated to "all the fathers," Ham on Rye is both an indictment of and a tribute to every boss, bully, teacher, preacher, and dictator (foreign and domestic) to leave their mark on Chinaski's (Bukowski's) coming-of-age experience, charting his own way forward if only by counterexample.
"My father liked the slogan, 'Early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.' But it hadn't done any of that for him. I decided that I might try to reverse the process."
Each loosely connected chapter finds Hank at some point in his troubled youth, from his earliest memories of Andernach, Germany, to the first of many rented rooms in Los Angeles, California. Most of the intervening narrative deals with his abysmal home life throughout his equally trying school years. Whether at the hands of his father or his peers, young Hank takes his lickings and learns to give a licking or two in kind. He fights back, carves out his niche, thinks about girls and yearns for safe haven.
"R.O.T.C. was for the misfits. Like I said, it was either that or gym."
As with any semi-autobiographical work, one has to wonder how much of it is true. Hank loses more fights than he wins, and his descriptions of failure should ring true for anyone accustomed to the experience. If Bukowski were to fictionalize anything here, you'd think that he might actually get laid somewhere in these 283 pages. Having said that, it's probably not much of a spoiler to reveal that he remains a virgin at least up until the bombing of Pearl Harbor, but anyone who's ever read Bukowski knows that he more than made up for this later in life (see Women, etc).
There's got to be some scholarly work out there that unpacks the fact from fiction, but if one exists I am not aware. With Buk and his parents long since dead, I suppose I could call up Linda Lee to ask. Stupid idea, I know, but maybe I could convince her to adopt me the same way she adopted Hank all those years ago. Despite their famous squabble, I have no doubt in my mind that she added at least an extra decade to his life, without which he may have never lived to see the publication of this book in the first place. But I digress, and my glass needs refilling. Goodnight...
For further reference:
"The father never leaves"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K_v1fc...
"That's called growing up"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WiuJGh...
Peace out, bitches!
This review is dedicated to Lila Jane.
So begins this chronicle of the dirty old man's humble beginnings, his formative years, and the myriad oppressions he endured throughout his childhood, adolescence, and early adult life. In the most literal sense, this opening line represents baby Hank's first concrete memory, but it also sets the tone for the entire memoir to come. Dedicated to "all the fathers," Ham on Rye is both an indictment of and a tribute to every boss, bully, teacher, preacher, and dictator (foreign and domestic) to leave their mark on Chinaski's (Bukowski's) coming-of-age experience, charting his own way forward if only by counterexample.
"My father liked the slogan, 'Early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.' But it hadn't done any of that for him. I decided that I might try to reverse the process."
Each loosely connected chapter finds Hank at some point in his troubled youth, from his earliest memories of Andernach, Germany, to the first of many rented rooms in Los Angeles, California. Most of the intervening narrative deals with his abysmal home life throughout his equally trying school years. Whether at the hands of his father or his peers, young Hank takes his lickings and learns to give a licking or two in kind. He fights back, carves out his niche, thinks about girls and yearns for safe haven.
"R.O.T.C. was for the misfits. Like I said, it was either that or gym."
As with any semi-autobiographical work, one has to wonder how much of it is true. Hank loses more fights than he wins, and his descriptions of failure should ring true for anyone accustomed to the experience. If Bukowski were to fictionalize anything here, you'd think that he might actually get laid somewhere in these 283 pages. Having said that, it's probably not much of a spoiler to reveal that he remains a virgin at least up until the bombing of Pearl Harbor, but anyone who's ever read Bukowski knows that he more than made up for this later in life (see Women, etc).
There's got to be some scholarly work out there that unpacks the fact from fiction, but if one exists I am not aware. With Buk and his parents long since dead, I suppose I could call up Linda Lee to ask. Stupid idea, I know, but maybe I could convince her to adopt me the same way she adopted Hank all those years ago. Despite their famous squabble, I have no doubt in my mind that she added at least an extra decade to his life, without which he may have never lived to see the publication of this book in the first place. But I digress, and my glass needs refilling. Goodnight...
For further reference:
"The father never leaves"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K_v1fc...
"That's called growing up"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WiuJGh...
Peace out, bitches!
This review is dedicated to Lila Jane.
October 4, 2016
“At the age of 25 most people were finished. A whole god-damned nation of assholes driving automobiles, eating, having babies, doing everything in the worst way possible, like voting for the presidential candidate who reminded them most of themselves.”
― Charles Bukowski, Ham on Rye
Reading Charles Bukowski in public is a rather curious thing. Every once in a while, you come across some line or paragraph that is suffused with such a potent strand of open misanthropy it makes you chuckle. You think to yourself: "Surely this man is exaggerating here, merely going for comedic or shock effect?" What do you do? You decide to test his theory. You look up, take in your surroundings, watch ordinary humans go about their daily business and return to the passage you just read. Then it hits you. "Oh shucks, he's kind of right here. What does that say about me? Am I turning into a -toned down- Bukowski myself?" The ones who appreciate Bukowski have this experience often, I presume (also hope).
Ham on Rye tells of the formative years (1920-45, roughly) of Bukowski's alter ego Henry Chinaski. In effect it is a loosely structured, even somewhat sloppy autobiography. Writing this book surely must have been emotionally punishing for Bukowski though. There is some serious, unresolved pain here, one supposes most of it not dealt with through any professional channels. Which would have been very unlike him, of course. Bukowski is the quintessential lone wolf, he dealt with his pain on his own terms. It wouldn't have given him the venom he needed, nor made him the figure he turned into.
He goes into lengthy detail about his horrendous childhood. The domineering and abusive father, the spineless mother, and the soul-crushing social alienation he experienced as a child and young adult. Dreams are shattered, any sense of self-worth is ground into the earth at inception and even the tiniest hint of human warmth displayed is slowly being squeezed out. Unsurprisingly, the only route open to the character is direct revolt and nihilism. A rejection of all social conventions, common "wisdoms" and, above all, expectations.
Yet for all the abject misery this is a supremely funny and vigorous book, if you know what to look for and share Bukowski's brand of humour. What really did surprise me though was that there is a tenderness here that I didn't find in either Post Office , Factotum or Women. At the ending of the book Bukowski seems to have found some degree of peace, some acceptance of his present state and past. Considering the tumultous, unpleasant life he had led up until then, this is one hell of a miracle.
You can level many accusations against Bukowski, both as a writer and as a person. Sure, his writing is blunt, unrefined, perhaps too reliant on cheap gross out effects. He was an alcoholic, a misanthrope, even a thoroughly vile man when he got you in his crosshairs, but what he surely wasn't was unfeeling. Underneath all that bravado and machismo there beat the heart of a disappointed, yet true, romantic. Sadly, that person never had a chance to flourish. That is the source of Bukowski's greatness and tragedy both.
― Charles Bukowski, Ham on Rye
Reading Charles Bukowski in public is a rather curious thing. Every once in a while, you come across some line or paragraph that is suffused with such a potent strand of open misanthropy it makes you chuckle. You think to yourself: "Surely this man is exaggerating here, merely going for comedic or shock effect?" What do you do? You decide to test his theory. You look up, take in your surroundings, watch ordinary humans go about their daily business and return to the passage you just read. Then it hits you. "Oh shucks, he's kind of right here. What does that say about me? Am I turning into a -toned down- Bukowski myself?" The ones who appreciate Bukowski have this experience often, I presume (also hope).
Ham on Rye tells of the formative years (1920-45, roughly) of Bukowski's alter ego Henry Chinaski. In effect it is a loosely structured, even somewhat sloppy autobiography. Writing this book surely must have been emotionally punishing for Bukowski though. There is some serious, unresolved pain here, one supposes most of it not dealt with through any professional channels. Which would have been very unlike him, of course. Bukowski is the quintessential lone wolf, he dealt with his pain on his own terms. It wouldn't have given him the venom he needed, nor made him the figure he turned into.
He goes into lengthy detail about his horrendous childhood. The domineering and abusive father, the spineless mother, and the soul-crushing social alienation he experienced as a child and young adult. Dreams are shattered, any sense of self-worth is ground into the earth at inception and even the tiniest hint of human warmth displayed is slowly being squeezed out. Unsurprisingly, the only route open to the character is direct revolt and nihilism. A rejection of all social conventions, common "wisdoms" and, above all, expectations.
Yet for all the abject misery this is a supremely funny and vigorous book, if you know what to look for and share Bukowski's brand of humour. What really did surprise me though was that there is a tenderness here that I didn't find in either Post Office , Factotum or Women. At the ending of the book Bukowski seems to have found some degree of peace, some acceptance of his present state and past. Considering the tumultous, unpleasant life he had led up until then, this is one hell of a miracle.
You can level many accusations against Bukowski, both as a writer and as a person. Sure, his writing is blunt, unrefined, perhaps too reliant on cheap gross out effects. He was an alcoholic, a misanthrope, even a thoroughly vile man when he got you in his crosshairs, but what he surely wasn't was unfeeling. Underneath all that bravado and machismo there beat the heart of a disappointed, yet true, romantic. Sadly, that person never had a chance to flourish. That is the source of Bukowski's greatness and tragedy both.
September 1, 2018
I feel like this kid is someone that I've known well, not just read a book about him.
June 10, 2020
“What a weary time those years were -- to have the desire and the need to live but not the ability.”
Imagine coming to a world where you're treated as an outsider, a misfit. A world where you don't have many friends, where your parents fail to understand you. A world where mental connection is rare. Charles Bukowski's entire career could be written down as a single story, the story of the misfits. At the center of it all, Ham on Rye is arguably the one story people will most connect with.
“I had noticed that both in the very poor and very rich extremes of society the mad were often allowed to mingle freely.”
Twenty-odd years of a young man's life are documented in this semi-autobiographical novel. The central character, Chinaski, wanders along in his merry misanthropic way through school to reach adulthood. The story touches on themes of child abuse, bullying, animal cruelty and general alienation from society. Henry Chinaski's role of the sarcastic spectre that drifts around America is given a worthy back-story as he's shown to be frequently beaten down by society for being different.
“I guess the only time most people think about injustice is when it happens to them.”
July 9, 2021
Review to be posted on blog: https://books-are-a-girls-best-friend...
Dysfunction that Breaks the Heart Ten Times Over. Knowing, however, that You Can Break Free from the Chains.
Ham on Rye: My first read by Charles Bukowski, came highly recommended.
A semi-autobiographical coming of age story about a young man named Henry Chinaski.
There is angst, desperation, dysfunction, heartache, and pain and then there is hysterical laughter.
Growing up during the Great Depression, this is the story of a young man who learned to question his existence, during a time when such a thing was not acceptable.
A father who is an abusive, alcoholic and is also mentally unstable, from whom Henry learned the finer points of alcohol. A mother who is unable to stand up for herself or her son.
Bullied, covered in acne, and terrible with girls, Henry sort of becomes a bully himself. Can’t say I blamed him, all things considered.
Then there is Henry’s personality. His cynicism. His sexual frustration. His adoration of Panties (yes, I said panties) and finally, Miss Gredis’ classroom - thump, thump, thump. That, my friends, is where the hysterical laughter comes in.
What makes this novel so wholly realistic is the writing, which is inflected with honesty and sincerity and clearly comes from a place of both pain and salvation. From knowing that there is more to life than the hand that Henry Chinaski was dealt.
What is astounding is that at such a tender young age, Charles Bukowski as Henry Chinaski, was wise beyond his years, asking pertinent questions, including what he wanted out of life. Pushing boundaries, and rejecting social conventions, making others do the same. Though somewhat crude, rude, and brash, “Henry Chinaski” was also brave, going where others had not gone before.
While I didn’t quite love this book, due to the way it was told, it resonated with me for a variety of reasons. At first, I found the writing to be a bit choppy though, thankfully it evened out as the story got going. Bold, and daring, Henry Chinaski is a “character” I won’t soon forget as he is one I identified with in many respects. Sadly, his parents, unfortunately, were quite like my own in many ways. The fact that this novel is semi-autobiographical broke my heart.
I have heard that Mr. Bukowski has written several other books that are a bit more profane, shocking, and vile. That remains to be seen.
3.85 Stars
Published on Goodreads, Twitter, and Instagram.
Dysfunction that Breaks the Heart Ten Times Over. Knowing, however, that You Can Break Free from the Chains.
Ham on Rye: My first read by Charles Bukowski, came highly recommended.
A semi-autobiographical coming of age story about a young man named Henry Chinaski.
There is angst, desperation, dysfunction, heartache, and pain and then there is hysterical laughter.
Growing up during the Great Depression, this is the story of a young man who learned to question his existence, during a time when such a thing was not acceptable.
A father who is an abusive, alcoholic and is also mentally unstable, from whom Henry learned the finer points of alcohol. A mother who is unable to stand up for herself or her son.
Bullied, covered in acne, and terrible with girls, Henry sort of becomes a bully himself. Can’t say I blamed him, all things considered.
Then there is Henry’s personality. His cynicism. His sexual frustration. His adoration of Panties (yes, I said panties) and finally, Miss Gredis’ classroom - thump, thump, thump. That, my friends, is where the hysterical laughter comes in.
What makes this novel so wholly realistic is the writing, which is inflected with honesty and sincerity and clearly comes from a place of both pain and salvation. From knowing that there is more to life than the hand that Henry Chinaski was dealt.
What is astounding is that at such a tender young age, Charles Bukowski as Henry Chinaski, was wise beyond his years, asking pertinent questions, including what he wanted out of life. Pushing boundaries, and rejecting social conventions, making others do the same. Though somewhat crude, rude, and brash, “Henry Chinaski” was also brave, going where others had not gone before.
While I didn’t quite love this book, due to the way it was told, it resonated with me for a variety of reasons. At first, I found the writing to be a bit choppy though, thankfully it evened out as the story got going. Bold, and daring, Henry Chinaski is a “character” I won’t soon forget as he is one I identified with in many respects. Sadly, his parents, unfortunately, were quite like my own in many ways. The fact that this novel is semi-autobiographical broke my heart.
I have heard that Mr. Bukowski has written several other books that are a bit more profane, shocking, and vile. That remains to be seen.
3.85 Stars
Published on Goodreads, Twitter, and Instagram.
May 28, 2016
عجیب نیست که آدم از شرح فلاکتهای کسی لذت ببرد؟ شاید نه. اگر این شرح را چارلز بوکوفسکی نوشته باشد. و در خوانش شرح بدبختیهای هنری چیناکسی حتا آدم خندهاش میگیرد، میخندد. البته اگر همه این اتفاقات در دنیای واقعیِ بوکوفسکی اتفاق افتاده باشند، چیزی شبیه کابوس است اما خواندن بیخیالی شخصیتی که خلق کرده، دیالوگهای بامزهاش و فضایی که در کل رمان ایجاد میکند به یک جور طنز سیاه شبیه میشود. هنری چیناسکی مرام و مسلک خودش را دارد، هیچکس جذبش نمیشود و در مقابل هیچچیزی در دنیا برایش جذاب نیست. همیشه در فکر انتقام گرفتن است، از دنیا، از آدمهای پولدار، از زندگی فقیرانهاش ولی هیچوقت جا نمیزند، هیچوقت واقعا جا نمیزند.
برای من این کتاب جز بهترینهای بوکوفسکی است.
برای من این کتاب جز بهترینهای بوکوفسکی است.
July 2, 2021
این بازی عادلانه نیست.
و ظالم اونیه که وعده عدالت میده.
و احمق اونی که امید به عدالت میبنده.
و ترسو اونی که به خاطر ناعادلانه بودن، دست از بازی میکشه.
عموما با شنیدن کلمه رکود بزرگ ، تصویری که در ذهن اکثر ما نقش می بنده، چیزی شبیه تصویر یک سقوط آزاد در نمودار بورسه. چیزی که ما درک نمی کنیم، و اون چیزی که اعداد و ارقام کتابهای تاریخی و اقتصادی ناتوان از بیانش هستند، رنج و درد هزاران هزار انسانهایی هستش که چه بسا از شدت ناامیدی خودکشی کردند یا زندگیشون تباه شد یا برای همیشه مسیرش عوض شد. اینجاست که لازم میشه تا کتابهایی مثل خوشه های خشم یا ساندویچ ژانبون رو خوند تا معنی اون یک کلمه رو فهمید.
ساندویچ ژانبون سرگذشت کودکی و نوجوونی شخصیت "تقریبا خیالی" هنری چیناسکی در دهه های 20 و 30 میلادی هستش. زندگی خود بوکوفسکی ظاهرا تا حد زیادی الهام بخش پرداخت شخصیت هنری چیناسکی بوده و از این جهت لطف خوندن کتاب رو بیشتر می کنه. داستان به شکل بسیار هنرمندانه ای اثرات فقر و خشونت بر یک کودک رو نشون میده. اینکه چطور یک روح معصوم دریده میشه و به شکل نوجوونی طغیانگر و سرکش بروز پیدا میکنه. با این وجود به دست آوردن ترحم شما آخرین چیزیه که بوکوفسکی دنبالشه. هدف اصلی زیر سوال بردن و به سخره گرفتن ارزشهای اجتم��عیه. ارزشهایی مثل آزادی و برابری. و اینکه چطور هرکسی از کمترین قدرتش بر علیه دیگری سواستفاده میکنه. پول یعنی قدرت. و قوی تر همیشه صاحب فرصت های بیشتری میشه. حتی فرصت جفتگیری! همون قوانین ساده جامعه بدوی...
زبان کتاب، زبانی طنزآلود و پلشت هستش. پر از فحش، تیکه طعنه، قلدربازی و موهومات جنسی یک نوجوون. با اینحال کتاب بخوبی تونسته حرفش رو بدون اینکه شعارگونه بشه یا از قالب کتاب بیرون بزنه به مخاطب القا کنه. انزوا، جامعه گریزی و زن گریزی هنری چیناسکی پیامد تنفر و بیزاری اون از تمام چیزهایی هستش که جامعه از اون سلب کرده. اما آیا بوکوفسکی میخواد از هنری چیناسکی یک قهرمان(ضدقهرمان) بسازه؟
در مورد کیفیت این کتاب صوتی باید بگم که اجرای عالی آرمان سلطان زاده و تدوین خوب موسیقی که مناسب با فضای داستان هست، تجربه فوق العاده ای رو به شنونده القا میکنه با اینحال ترجمه سانسور شدست و حال آدم رو میگیره. اینه که اگر خواستید بخونید از روی متن اصلی بخونید نه ترجمه.
و ظالم اونیه که وعده عدالت میده.
و احمق اونی که امید به عدالت میبنده.
و ترسو اونی که به خاطر ناعادلانه بودن، دست از بازی میکشه.
عموما با شنیدن کلمه رکود بزرگ ، تصویری که در ذهن اکثر ما نقش می بنده، چیزی شبیه تصویر یک سقوط آزاد در نمودار بورسه. چیزی که ما درک نمی کنیم، و اون چیزی که اعداد و ارقام کتابهای تاریخی و اقتصادی ناتوان از بیانش هستند، رنج و درد هزاران هزار انسانهایی هستش که چه بسا از شدت ناامیدی خودکشی کردند یا زندگیشون تباه شد یا برای همیشه مسیرش عوض شد. اینجاست که لازم میشه تا کتابهایی مثل خوشه های خشم یا ساندویچ ژانبون رو خوند تا معنی اون یک کلمه رو فهمید.
ساندویچ ژانبون سرگذشت کودکی و نوجوونی شخصیت "تقریبا خیالی" هنری چیناسکی در دهه های 20 و 30 میلادی هستش. زندگی خود بوکوفسکی ظاهرا تا حد زیادی الهام بخش پرداخت شخصیت هنری چیناسکی بوده و از این جهت لطف خوندن کتاب رو بیشتر می کنه. داستان به شکل بسیار هنرمندانه ای اثرات فقر و خشونت بر یک کودک رو نشون میده. اینکه چطور یک روح معصوم دریده میشه و به شکل نوجوونی طغیانگر و سرکش بروز پیدا میکنه. با این وجود به دست آوردن ترحم شما آخرین چیزیه که بوکوفسکی دنبالشه. هدف اصلی زیر سوال بردن و به سخره گرفتن ارزشهای اجتم��عیه. ارزشهایی مثل آزادی و برابری. و اینکه چطور هرکسی از کمترین قدرتش بر علیه دیگری سواستفاده میکنه. پول یعنی قدرت. و قوی تر همیشه صاحب فرصت های بیشتری میشه. حتی فرصت جفتگیری! همون قوانین ساده جامعه بدوی...
زبان کتاب، زبانی طنزآلود و پلشت هستش. پر از فحش، تیکه طعنه، قلدربازی و موهومات جنسی یک نوجوون. با اینحال کتاب بخوبی تونسته حرفش رو بدون اینکه شعارگونه بشه یا از قالب کتاب بیرون بزنه به مخاطب القا کنه. انزوا، جامعه گریزی و زن گریزی هنری چیناسکی پیامد تنفر و بیزاری اون از تمام چیزهایی هستش که جامعه از اون سلب کرده. اما آیا بوکوفسکی میخواد از هنری چیناسکی یک قهرمان(ضدقهرمان) بسازه؟
در مورد کیفیت این کتاب صوتی باید بگم که اجرای عالی آرمان سلطان زاده و تدوین خوب موسیقی که مناسب با فضای داستان هست، تجربه فوق العاده ای رو به شنونده القا میکنه با اینحال ترجمه سانسور شدست و حال آدم رو میگیره. اینه که اگر خواستید بخونید از روی متن اصلی بخونید نه ترجمه.
June 12, 2022
"I would rather be a dishwasher, return alone to a tiny room and drink myself to sleep"
Just one of many brilliant lines from this brilliant autobiographical novel. It's probably Bukowski's best work for me. From his early roots as a troubled kid who was treated appallingly by his father, through to his angst teenage years, Bukowski simply doesn't hold back on anything. Chinaski's wallowing about the world gets more bitter as he physically gets stronger resulting in an angry and cocky young man who takes to cheap wine and motel rooms better than he does people. I will always remember this for the hilariously funny and rude bits rather than the sad, with one moment in particular where Henry and his friend Frank travel to an air show and end up under the Grandstand of spectators which had me in absolute stitches! I don't think I've laughed my socks off more over a scene than that one.
October 31, 2024
It's a fact that one's childhood and adolescence form one's world outlook, shape the character and, actually, condition one's future. The protagonist (the author) had a traumatizing childhood not because he was growing up during the Great Depression or because their family was poor, but because he had terrible parents.
'Ham on Rye' is about anger, pain, isolation and sadness of Henry's childhood and adolescence. Rough life means rough writing style which makes you feel uncomfortable because the author doesn't bother filtering the language used to honestly describe the hostile environment he has to survive and find his place in.
Bukowski is not quite my type of author but it was worth a try. By the way, some years ago I read some of his poetry and I liked it.
'The problem was you had to keep choosing between one evil or another, and no matter what you chose, they sliced a little bit more off you, until there was nothing left. At the age of 25 most people were finished. A whole god-damned nation of assholes driving automobiles, eating, having babies, doing everything in the worst way possible, like voting for the presidential candidate who reminded them most of themselves.'
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
'I could see the road ahead of me. I was poor and I was going to stay poor. But I didn’t particularly want money. 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 or 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? I would rather be a dishwasher, return alone to a tiny room and drink myself to sleep.'
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
'I looked at my father, at his hands, his face, his eyebrows, and I knew that this man had nothing to do with me. He was a stranger. My mother was non-existent. I was cursed. Looking at my father I saw nothing but indecent dullness. Worse, he was even more afraid to fail than most others.'
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
'All my life, in that neighborhood, I had been walking into spider webs, I had been attacked by blackbirds, I had lived with my father. Everything was eternally dreary, dismal, damned. Even the weather was insolent and bitchy. It was either unbearably hot for weeks on end, or it rained, and
when it rained it rained for five or six days. The water came up over the lawns and poured into the houses. Who’d ever planned the drainage system had probably been well paid for his ignorance about such matters. And my own affairs were as bad, as dismal, as the day I had been born.'
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
'I made practice runs down to skid row to get ready for my future. I didn’t like what I saw down there. Those men and women had no special daring or brilliance. They wanted what everybody else wanted. There were also some obvious mental cases down there who were allowed to walk the
streets undisturbed. I had noticed that both in the very poor and very rich extremes of society the mad were often allowed to mingle freely. I knew that I wasn’t entirely sane. I still knew, as I had as a child, that there was something strange about myself. I felt as if I were destined to be a murderer,
a bank robber, a saint, a rapist, a monk, a hermit. I needed an isolated place to hide. Skid row was disgusting. 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. I went back to my shack and drank…'
'Ham on Rye' is about anger, pain, isolation and sadness of Henry's childhood and adolescence. Rough life means rough writing style which makes you feel uncomfortable because the author doesn't bother filtering the language used to honestly describe the hostile environment he has to survive and find his place in.
Bukowski is not quite my type of author but it was worth a try. By the way, some years ago I read some of his poetry and I liked it.
'The problem was you had to keep choosing between one evil or another, and no matter what you chose, they sliced a little bit more off you, until there was nothing left. At the age of 25 most people were finished. A whole god-damned nation of assholes driving automobiles, eating, having babies, doing everything in the worst way possible, like voting for the presidential candidate who reminded them most of themselves.'
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
'I could see the road ahead of me. I was poor and I was going to stay poor. But I didn’t particularly want money. 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 or 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? I would rather be a dishwasher, return alone to a tiny room and drink myself to sleep.'
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
'I looked at my father, at his hands, his face, his eyebrows, and I knew that this man had nothing to do with me. He was a stranger. My mother was non-existent. I was cursed. Looking at my father I saw nothing but indecent dullness. Worse, he was even more afraid to fail than most others.'
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
'All my life, in that neighborhood, I had been walking into spider webs, I had been attacked by blackbirds, I had lived with my father. Everything was eternally dreary, dismal, damned. Even the weather was insolent and bitchy. It was either unbearably hot for weeks on end, or it rained, and
when it rained it rained for five or six days. The water came up over the lawns and poured into the houses. Who’d ever planned the drainage system had probably been well paid for his ignorance about such matters. And my own affairs were as bad, as dismal, as the day I had been born.'
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
'I made practice runs down to skid row to get ready for my future. I didn’t like what I saw down there. Those men and women had no special daring or brilliance. They wanted what everybody else wanted. There were also some obvious mental cases down there who were allowed to walk the
streets undisturbed. I had noticed that both in the very poor and very rich extremes of society the mad were often allowed to mingle freely. I knew that I wasn’t entirely sane. I still knew, as I had as a child, that there was something strange about myself. I felt as if I were destined to be a murderer,
a bank robber, a saint, a rapist, a monk, a hermit. I needed an isolated place to hide. Skid row was disgusting. 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. I went back to my shack and drank…'
February 23, 2019
"برای همهی پدرها"
از همون تقدیم نامهی کتاب میشه فهمید این بار بوکفسکی از چی می خواد برامون بگه. از تجربه ای که خیلی از ماها توی دوران نوجوونی مون داشتیم. جدال با والدِ الگو و شکستنِ قهرمانی که از اون(پدر/مادر) برای خودمون ساخته بودیم. که معمولاً برای پسرها، پدر الگوئه.
سِنّی که آدم با خودش میگه من ازش{بابا/مامان} بیشتر می فهمم و اون افکارش قدیمیه. افکار کهنهاش به درد خودش میخوره. من می خوام خودم باشم و برای خودم زندگی کنم و برای خودم تصمیم بگیرم.
و اینجوریه که آدم یا از خونه بیرون انداخته میشه یا مجبور میشه برای ندیدن ریختِ دیگران، خودش رو توی اتاقش محبوس کنه. این مرحله در مراحل رشد شخصیتی که اریک اریکسون تعریف کرده، هویت در برابر سردرگمیِ نقش نام داره.
آخرسر هم بعد از چند سال زندگی و خوردن سرِ آدم به سنگِ زمونه، می فهمه که نه...، همون(بابا/مامان) خیلی جاها رو درست می گفت و لجبازیِ من از سرِ بی تجربگی بود. اما با این وجود، برنده کسیه که بر علیه قهرمانش عصیان کرده باشه. و به چنین نوجوونی میشه امیدوار بود. وکسی که در اون سن عصیان نکنه معمولاً تا آخر عمرش پدر و مادر و دیگران برای زندگیش تصمیم خواهند گرفت.
دستورآشپزیِ درست کردن ساندویچ ژامبون
فقر(به عنوان نان) : یک عدد
زشت بودنِ چهره(به عنوان نان) : یک عدد
بوکفسکی(به عنوان ژامبون) : یک عدد
کتاب و شراب و سیگار: به مقدار کافی
بوکفسکی در این کتاب علاوه بر درگیری هایی که با پدرش داشته و سختگیری های پدرش که اذیتش می کرده، از ماجراهای نوجوونیش میگه و از آبلهرو بودن خودش میگه و از فقری که باهاش دست و پنجه نرم می کرده میگه.
نقص در چهره و فقر دو عاملی هستند که هم می تونن آدم رو نابود کنن و هم می تونن آدم رو به بزرگی برسونن. آدم های مهمی که نقص عضو داشتن اما به مراتب و مدارج بالایی رسیدهن کم نیستن. مثلاً همین ژوزف استالین، دائم آبلههای صورتش رو توی عکسها روتوش میکردن. اما به جایی رسیده که برای مرگ و زندگی چند میلیون آدم تصمیم می گرفته.
این دسته از آدم ها چون از جامعه طرد میشن(و از همه مهمتر در بازی های کودکی و مدرسه این اتفاق می افته. یعنی بچه های دیگه، بچهی زشت یا فقیر رو به گروه خودشون راه نمیدن) اون بچه ناخودآگاه تصمیم می گیره جور دیگه ای توجه دیگران رو به خودش جلب کنه و تحسین اونها رو برانگیزه.
بوکفسکی هم از اون معدود آدم هایی که در هر قرن فقط چندتا ازشون پیدا میشن بوده و تونسته کاری بکنه که بعد از گذشت چندین سال پس از مرگش در اون سرِ دنیا، من اینجا دربارهی زندگیش مطلب بنویسم!
کتاب ساندویچ ژامبون، برای من چه چیزی رو تداعی میکنه؟
هیچی؛ یک تجربهی تلخ.
سه سال پیش، چاپ اول ساندویچ ژامبون رو بیدرنگ خریدم و شروع کردم به مطالعه کردن اما در حین مطالعه کردن، متوجه غلطهای نگارشی و املایی فراوونی توی متن ترجمهی کتاب شدم و این شد که فردای اون روز با ناشر کتاب تماس گرفتم و اونا ازم خواستن این کتاب رو ویرایش کنم. من هم به جهت علاقهای که به بوکفسکی داشتم این کار رو قبول کردم و با وجود مشغلهای که داشتم، کار رو شروع کردم. بعد از گذشت یک هفته، کار به پایان رسید و برای ناشر ارسال کردم. یک ماه گذشت خبری از ناشر نشد. دو ماه گذشت خبری نشد. تا اینکه تصمیم گرفتم دوباره تماس بگیرم. وقتی تماس گرفتم، اونها به همین جواب بسنده کردن که: «ویرایشتون اعمال شده.» به سرعت چاپ جدید رو تهیه کردم(هر چند انتظار داشتم ناشر دستکم یک نسخه برام ارسال کنه) اما دیدم در شناسنامهی نسخهی جدید کتاب، نامی از من آورده نشده. خیلی ناراحت شدم. تصمیم گرفتم حضوری به دفتر انتشارات برم و رفتم و معترض شدم، اما اعتراضم هیچ فایده ای نداشت.
الان هر وقت این کتاب رو توی کتابفروشی ها یا گودریدز می بینم اون خاطره ی تلخ در ذهنم تداعی میشه.ناشر دستکم باید اسمم رو به عنوان ویراستار اول کتاب میذاشت. که نذاشت دیگه.
نمونههای قبل و بعد از ویرایش رو این پایین گذاشتم:
از همون تقدیم نامهی کتاب میشه فهمید این بار بوکفسکی از چی می خواد برامون بگه. از تجربه ای که خیلی از ماها توی دوران نوجوونی مون داشتیم. جدال با والدِ الگو و شکستنِ قهرمانی که از اون(پدر/مادر) برای خودمون ساخته بودیم. که معمولاً برای پسرها، پدر الگوئه.
سِنّی که آدم با خودش میگه من ازش{بابا/مامان} بیشتر می فهمم و اون افکارش قدیمیه. افکار کهنهاش به درد خودش میخوره. من می خوام خودم باشم و برای خودم زندگی کنم و برای خودم تصمیم بگیرم.
و اینجوریه که آدم یا از خونه بیرون انداخته میشه یا مجبور میشه برای ندیدن ریختِ دیگران، خودش رو توی اتاقش محبوس کنه. این مرحله در مراحل رشد شخصیتی که اریک اریکسون تعریف کرده، هویت در برابر سردرگمیِ نقش نام داره.
آخرسر هم بعد از چند سال زندگی و خوردن سرِ آدم به سنگِ زمونه، می فهمه که نه...، همون(بابا/مامان) خیلی جاها رو درست می گفت و لجبازیِ من از سرِ بی تجربگی بود. اما با این وجود، برنده کسیه که بر علیه قهرمانش عصیان کرده باشه. و به چنین نوجوونی میشه امیدوار بود. وکسی که در اون سن عصیان نکنه معمولاً تا آخر عمرش پدر و مادر و دیگران برای زندگیش تصمیم خواهند گرفت.
دستورآشپزیِ درست کردن ساندویچ ژامبون
فقر(به عنوان نان) : یک عدد
زشت بودنِ چهره(به عنوان نان) : یک عدد
بوکفسکی(به عنوان ژامبون) : یک عدد
کتاب و شراب و سیگار: به مقدار کافی
بوکفسکی در این کتاب علاوه بر درگیری هایی که با پدرش داشته و سختگیری های پدرش که اذیتش می کرده، از ماجراهای نوجوونیش میگه و از آبلهرو بودن خودش میگه و از فقری که باهاش دست و پنجه نرم می کرده میگه.
نقص در چهره و فقر دو عاملی هستند که هم می تونن آدم رو نابود کنن و هم می تونن آدم رو به بزرگی برسونن. آدم های مهمی که نقص عضو داشتن اما به مراتب و مدارج بالایی رسیدهن کم نیستن. مثلاً همین ژوزف استالین، دائم آبلههای صورتش رو توی عکسها روتوش میکردن. اما به جایی رسیده که برای مرگ و زندگی چند میلیون آدم تصمیم می گرفته.
این دسته از آدم ها چون از جامعه طرد میشن(و از همه مهمتر در بازی های کودکی و مدرسه این اتفاق می افته. یعنی بچه های دیگه، بچهی زشت یا فقیر رو به گروه خودشون راه نمیدن) اون بچه ناخودآگاه تصمیم می گیره جور دیگه ای توجه دیگران رو به خودش جلب کنه و تحسین اونها رو برانگیزه.
بوکفسکی هم از اون معدود آدم هایی که در هر قرن فقط چندتا ازشون پیدا میشن بوده و تونسته کاری بکنه که بعد از گذشت چندین سال پس از مرگش در اون سرِ دنیا، من اینجا دربارهی زندگیش مطلب بنویسم!
کتاب ساندویچ ژامبون، برای من چه چیزی رو تداعی میکنه؟
هیچی؛ یک تجربهی تلخ.
سه سال پیش، چاپ اول ساندویچ ژامبون رو بیدرنگ خریدم و شروع کردم به مطالعه کردن اما در حین مطالعه کردن، متوجه غلطهای نگارشی و املایی فراوونی توی متن ترجمهی کتاب شدم و این شد که فردای اون روز با ناشر کتاب تماس گرفتم و اونا ازم خواستن این کتاب رو ویرایش کنم. من هم به جهت علاقهای که به بوکفسکی داشتم این کار رو قبول کردم و با وجود مشغلهای که داشتم، کار رو شروع کردم. بعد از گذشت یک هفته، کار به پایان رسید و برای ناشر ارسال کردم. یک ماه گذشت خبری از ناشر نشد. دو ماه گذشت خبری نشد. تا اینکه تصمیم گرفتم دوباره تماس بگیرم. وقتی تماس گرفتم، اونها به همین جواب بسنده کردن که: «ویرایشتون اعمال شده.» به سرعت چاپ جدید رو تهیه کردم(هر چند انتظار داشتم ناشر دستکم یک نسخه برام ارسال کنه) اما دیدم در شناسنامهی نسخهی جدید کتاب، نامی از من آورده نشده. خیلی ناراحت شدم. تصمیم گرفتم حضوری به دفتر انتشارات برم و رفتم و معترض شدم، اما اعتراضم هیچ فایده ای نداشت.
الان هر وقت این کتاب رو توی کتابفروشی ها یا گودریدز می بینم اون خاطره ی تلخ در ذهنم تداعی میشه.ناشر دستکم باید اسمم رو به عنوان ویراستار اول کتاب میذاشت. که نذاشت دیگه.
نمونههای قبل و بعد از ویرایش رو این پایین گذاشتم:
December 6, 2019
Ham on Rye, Charles Bukowski
The novel focuses on the protagonist, Henry Chinaski, between the years of 1920 and 1941. It begins with Chinaski's early memories. As the story progresses the reader follows his life through the school years and into young adulthood. Chinaski relates that he has an abusive father, and his mother does nothing to stop his father's abuse. She is, in fact, a victim of her husband's brutality as well. Henry is not athletic but wants to be and therefore tries hard to improve. Football is difficult for him, but he enjoys the violence that comes with it. He has only slightly better results in baseball. As Chinaski progresses through grammar school, the focus of Henry's attention is on sports, violence, and girls. As Henry grinds his way through Junior High School, he discovers the manifold pleasures of alcohol and masturbation. As Henry begins High School, his father, who is experiencing downward inter-generational socioeconomic mobility, makes him go to a private school where he fits in even less amongst all the well-heeled, spoiled rich kids with their flashy, colorful, convertible sports cars and beautiful girlfriends. To make matters worse, Chinaski develops horrible acne so severe that he has to undergo painful, and mostly ineffective, treatments, essentially becoming a human guinea pig for various experiments thought up by his uninterested doctors. The reader eventually follows Chinaski to college and reads of Henry's attempt to find a worthwhile occupation.
تاریخ نخستین خوانش: روز ششم ماه سپتامبر سال 2016 میلادی
عنوان: ساندویچ ژامبون؛ نویسنده: چارلز بوکوفسکی؛ مترجم: علی امیرریاحی؛ تهران: نگاه، 1394؛ در 400 ص؛ شابک: 9786003760806؛ چاپ نهم و دهم 1397؛ موضوع: داستانهای نویسندگان آلمانی تبار آمریکایی - سده 20 م
ساندویچ ژامبون یکی از رمانهای شاعر و نویسنده آلمانی تبار آمریکایی «چارلز بوکوفسکی» است؛ که نخستین بار در سال 1982 میلادی منتشر شد. این رمان در واقع یک اتوبیوگرافی از زندگی نویسنده است. «چارلز بوکوفسکی» در این رمان به روایت زندگی خویش میپردازد. رمان با راوی اول شخصی به نام «هنری چیناسکی» پیش میرود، و روایتگر سالهای نخستین زندگی «بوکوفسکی» است. نقل نمونه هایی از متن کتاب: «اغلب از پدرم بابت بیرون رفتن با فرنک کمی کتک میخوردم، اما فهمیدم که من به هر حال سهمیه کتکم را خواهم داشت پس بهتر است کارهایی که دوست دارم انجام بدهم.»؛ «هر کسی میتوانست خوب باشد، اینکه جرئت نمیخواست!»؛ «خیلی خب خدا، فرض میکنیم تو واقعا مرا در این شرایط قرار داده ای تا امتحانم کنی. تو مرا با مشکلترین امتحانها یعنی پدر و مادر، و جوشهایم به آزمون کشیدی. فکر کنم امتحانت را قبول شدم… کشیش به ما گفت که هیچوقت شک نکنید. به چی شک نکنیم؟ همیشه بیش از حد به من سخت گرفته ای، پس من ازت میخواهم که بیایی پایین و شک مرا برطرف کنی!»؛ «نمیشد به آدمها اعتماد کرد. هر طور حساب میکردی باز آدمها ارزش اعتماد کردن نداشتند.»؛ «در کتابخانه راه میرفتم و کتابها را نگاه میکردم. یکی یکی از قفسه در میآوردم. همه شان احمقانه و بی روح بودند. صفحه ها پر از کلمات بودند، ولی چیزی برای گفتن وجود نداشت. اگر هم حرفی داشتند، آنقدر کش میدادند که وقتی به آن حرف میرسیدی دیگر حسابی از حوصله افتاده بودی.»؛ پایان نقل. ا. شربیانی
The novel focuses on the protagonist, Henry Chinaski, between the years of 1920 and 1941. It begins with Chinaski's early memories. As the story progresses the reader follows his life through the school years and into young adulthood. Chinaski relates that he has an abusive father, and his mother does nothing to stop his father's abuse. She is, in fact, a victim of her husband's brutality as well. Henry is not athletic but wants to be and therefore tries hard to improve. Football is difficult for him, but he enjoys the violence that comes with it. He has only slightly better results in baseball. As Chinaski progresses through grammar school, the focus of Henry's attention is on sports, violence, and girls. As Henry grinds his way through Junior High School, he discovers the manifold pleasures of alcohol and masturbation. As Henry begins High School, his father, who is experiencing downward inter-generational socioeconomic mobility, makes him go to a private school where he fits in even less amongst all the well-heeled, spoiled rich kids with their flashy, colorful, convertible sports cars and beautiful girlfriends. To make matters worse, Chinaski develops horrible acne so severe that he has to undergo painful, and mostly ineffective, treatments, essentially becoming a human guinea pig for various experiments thought up by his uninterested doctors. The reader eventually follows Chinaski to college and reads of Henry's attempt to find a worthwhile occupation.
تاریخ نخستین خوانش: روز ششم ماه سپتامبر سال 2016 میلادی
عنوان: ساندویچ ژامبون؛ نویسنده: چارلز بوکوفسکی؛ مترجم: علی امیرریاحی؛ تهران: نگاه، 1394؛ در 400 ص؛ شابک: 9786003760806؛ چاپ نهم و دهم 1397؛ موضوع: داستانهای نویسندگان آلمانی تبار آمریکایی - سده 20 م
ساندویچ ژامبون یکی از رمانهای شاعر و نویسنده آلمانی تبار آمریکایی «چارلز بوکوفسکی» است؛ که نخستین بار در سال 1982 میلادی منتشر شد. این رمان در واقع یک اتوبیوگرافی از زندگی نویسنده است. «چارلز بوکوفسکی» در این رمان به روایت زندگی خویش میپردازد. رمان با راوی اول شخصی به نام «هنری چیناسکی» پیش میرود، و روایتگر سالهای نخستین زندگی «بوکوفسکی» است. نقل نمونه هایی از متن کتاب: «اغلب از پدرم بابت بیرون رفتن با فرنک کمی کتک میخوردم، اما فهمیدم که من به هر حال سهمیه کتکم را خواهم داشت پس بهتر است کارهایی که دوست دارم انجام بدهم.»؛ «هر کسی میتوانست خوب باشد، اینکه جرئت نمیخواست!»؛ «خیلی خب خدا، فرض میکنیم تو واقعا مرا در این شرایط قرار داده ای تا امتحانم کنی. تو مرا با مشکلترین امتحانها یعنی پدر و مادر، و جوشهایم به آزمون کشیدی. فکر کنم امتحانت را قبول شدم… کشیش به ما گفت که هیچوقت شک نکنید. به چی شک نکنیم؟ همیشه بیش از حد به من سخت گرفته ای، پس من ازت میخواهم که بیایی پایین و شک مرا برطرف کنی!»؛ «نمیشد به آدمها اعتماد کرد. هر طور حساب میکردی باز آدمها ارزش اعتماد کردن نداشتند.»؛ «در کتابخانه راه میرفتم و کتابها را نگاه میکردم. یکی یکی از قفسه در میآوردم. همه شان احمقانه و بی روح بودند. صفحه ها پر از کلمات بودند، ولی چیزی برای گفتن وجود نداشت. اگر هم حرفی داشتند، آنقدر کش میدادند که وقتی به آن حرف میرسیدی دیگر حسابی از حوصله افتاده بودی.»؛ پایان نقل. ا. شربیانی
March 29, 2010
It all started in 7th grade with these stupid clubs they made us join. Some kind of “get involved” self esteem horseshit. Every other Friday was club day. An hour before school let out everyone had to pick a club to go to. They gave us a list. I left mine blank, so they put me in the Sports Cards Collecting Club. Better than the Baking Club, I guess. My friend Joe, whose dad was president of the Charles County fire department, didn’t leave his blank. He actually chose the Sports Card Collecting Club. The first Friday came. Same boring shit classes as usual. Then it was time to meet for our clubs. I had smoked a few cigarettes in the boys room before showing up, and was late. They gave us free football cards. I only like football when it’s tackle in the street without pads. Pads are for pussies. On top of that they gave us Redskin cards. Everybody was a Redskin fan, so I hated the Redskins. These cards: burning material.
Joe spent that night at my house. Usually we stayed up trying to watch porn. HBO tits and an occasion bush through a fuzzy screen, because my cheap parents wouldn’t get pay channels. Softcore stuff was all there was then. No internet. This softcore stuff never showed cock though. That was good. I hate seeing another guy’s cock.
But that night all we could think about was lighting those Redskins on fire. After polishing off my Dad’s bottle of Wild Turkey, we went to bed. When we woke up the next morning, Joe threw up. I probably drank twice as much as he did. That shit for brains can’t ever hold his liquor. He didn’t even eat the scrambled eggs my mom made for breakfast. So I ate his too. My mother always told me that she loved me. I didn’t love her, but she made good eggs. When my mom went upstairs Joe said I ate those eggs like they were Marilyn Monroe’s cunt. Now I don’t mind having my dick sucked, but I never eat pussy, so I punched him in the face. Now he had a black eye and his headache hurt worse; because while I may have small hands, I always hit hard. People remember it when I hit them.
After this we went into the woods behind my house to burn those cards. We started cautious because it was windy and there were lots of leaves on the ground. It was so sweet watching those cards melt and burn. But that got old, so I said, “Joe, this burning football cards is for goddamn children.” Joe just shrugged his shoulders. All he ever did was shrug his fucking shoulders. I kind of liked that about him.
I decided to light a few small piles of leaves. Now that’s a fire. Burn baby, burn. I was starting to feel alive. We found a bucket and put the fires out with water from the creek. No problem. I couldn’t get enough though. Who could? Fire is life. Things need to burn, wither, and be destroyed. Life is this type of destruction: a fire slowly charring us until we’re seven feet under hanging with the worms.....
So I made larger, better fires. BURN BABY, BURN, BURN, BURN. If only there had been whiskey left for this occasion. Then one of the fires got out of control. The wind took it into more leaves and then into some trees. Joe tried throwing water on it, but there was no putting out this fire. I just stood and watched the beautiful destruction I had created. Joe started coughing from the smoke and threw up again. Then he ran back up to my house. I just stayed and watched, waiting on the sirens.....
It finally took nine fire trucks to take that sucker down. I wanted to see a house burn. Came close, but no cigar. I was always coming close but never really getting anywhere, it seemed. It was Mr. Robinson's house that almost got it. Twenty more yards and it would have happened. But I at least had seven acres to my credit.
The whole neighborhood showed up for the event. I didn’t run or act like it wasn’t me. Only pussies run. Joe showed up too. And would you believe that he was crying? Others were crying too. Like Mrs Robinson. And my mother. And people actually tried hugging me. I guess they felt sorry for me. I didn’t feel sorry for myself. A friend’s mom gave me a big hug, told me she knew I wasn’t really a bad kid deep down. I got a nice hold of her ass as she hugged me. It wasn’t bad for her age.
I went home and my parents tried to ground me. But that shit never works. I had had my fun. I even had a few beers in my coat pockets that I had taken from Mr. Robinson’s garage. It was a better day than most.
Joe spent that night at my house. Usually we stayed up trying to watch porn. HBO tits and an occasion bush through a fuzzy screen, because my cheap parents wouldn’t get pay channels. Softcore stuff was all there was then. No internet. This softcore stuff never showed cock though. That was good. I hate seeing another guy’s cock.
But that night all we could think about was lighting those Redskins on fire. After polishing off my Dad’s bottle of Wild Turkey, we went to bed. When we woke up the next morning, Joe threw up. I probably drank twice as much as he did. That shit for brains can’t ever hold his liquor. He didn’t even eat the scrambled eggs my mom made for breakfast. So I ate his too. My mother always told me that she loved me. I didn’t love her, but she made good eggs. When my mom went upstairs Joe said I ate those eggs like they were Marilyn Monroe’s cunt. Now I don’t mind having my dick sucked, but I never eat pussy, so I punched him in the face. Now he had a black eye and his headache hurt worse; because while I may have small hands, I always hit hard. People remember it when I hit them.
After this we went into the woods behind my house to burn those cards. We started cautious because it was windy and there were lots of leaves on the ground. It was so sweet watching those cards melt and burn. But that got old, so I said, “Joe, this burning football cards is for goddamn children.” Joe just shrugged his shoulders. All he ever did was shrug his fucking shoulders. I kind of liked that about him.
I decided to light a few small piles of leaves. Now that’s a fire. Burn baby, burn. I was starting to feel alive. We found a bucket and put the fires out with water from the creek. No problem. I couldn’t get enough though. Who could? Fire is life. Things need to burn, wither, and be destroyed. Life is this type of destruction: a fire slowly charring us until we’re seven feet under hanging with the worms.....
So I made larger, better fires. BURN BABY, BURN, BURN, BURN. If only there had been whiskey left for this occasion. Then one of the fires got out of control. The wind took it into more leaves and then into some trees. Joe tried throwing water on it, but there was no putting out this fire. I just stood and watched the beautiful destruction I had created. Joe started coughing from the smoke and threw up again. Then he ran back up to my house. I just stayed and watched, waiting on the sirens.....
It finally took nine fire trucks to take that sucker down. I wanted to see a house burn. Came close, but no cigar. I was always coming close but never really getting anywhere, it seemed. It was Mr. Robinson's house that almost got it. Twenty more yards and it would have happened. But I at least had seven acres to my credit.
The whole neighborhood showed up for the event. I didn’t run or act like it wasn’t me. Only pussies run. Joe showed up too. And would you believe that he was crying? Others were crying too. Like Mrs Robinson. And my mother. And people actually tried hugging me. I guess they felt sorry for me. I didn’t feel sorry for myself. A friend’s mom gave me a big hug, told me she knew I wasn’t really a bad kid deep down. I got a nice hold of her ass as she hugged me. It wasn’t bad for her age.
I went home and my parents tried to ground me. But that shit never works. I had had my fun. I even had a few beers in my coat pockets that I had taken from Mr. Robinson’s garage. It was a better day than most.
January 1, 2018
موجع هذا النص تعاطفت مع هنري (صاحبنا بوكوفسكي) وكذلك مع والدة هنري وهي تعاني من سوء تصرف والدها وبدأت أعي حجم المعاناة التي ولد وسطها هذا البوكوفسكي وسط إنـهيار والده تجاريًا في ألمانيا بعد الحرب العالمية الأولى وإستقرارهم في لوس أنجلوس وكيف أثر والده عليه بتصرفه تجاه والدته وبداية المخزون اللغوي القذر الذي سجله في سيرته الروائية في كل أعماله لمعاناة والده بسبب عدم وجود عمل يعينه. هذا غير كمية سوء المعاملة من إهانة وضرب تلقتها الأم والأبناء معًا.
في هذا الجزء يعود بوكوفسكي أو نقل بطل النص "هنري تشيناسكي" للجذور – الولادة. يقوم بتشريح المكان والزمان من خلال العائلة، والأفعال التي سوف تعشش في ذاكرته لسنوات طويلة. هنا أعتقد بدأت أعي بعض أفكار وحياة بوكوفسكي... هنا في هذا الجزء الطفولة والمراهقة والضرب بواسطة حزام البنطلون - يبدو أنه أداة الضرب الوحيدة ي ذلك الوقت- والتعرف على الكحول الطريق الذي سيوجعنا به بوكوفسكي. طوال حياته. كذلك توثق الرواية لأثر الكساد الذي ضرب أمريكا وغيرها بسبب الحرب العالمية الثانية. كذلك شباب بوكوفسكي المضطرب تجده في كل هذه الرواية بين ألمانيا وامريكا.
التطور الذي حدث في مستوى اللغة الشعرية عند بوكوفسكي ينطلق من طاولات مدرسته وهو صغير ومن منزله حيث والده الذي يبدو أنه ورث عنه قاموسًا ��ضاف له الكثير. كنت أقف مستغربًآ بين قدرة هذا الرجل على التمادي في الشتم واللعن وذكر تفاصيل الحياة الجنسية.. أعتقد كنت أشعر به يفجّر ذلك الغضب على الورق وأتخيل يعلم أنه يكرر نفسه لكن يأبى الوقوف.
سير الرواية من ناحية البناء جيد جدًا.
يصّور طفولته والحياة الإمريكية إبان الحرب العالمية الثانية في لغة سردية رائعة، ورغم شاعرية بوكفسكي إلا أنه ذكي في الرواية لا يتكلف في النص. قرأت له روايتان بلغتها الأم. حقيقة لا يتكلف رغم أن لديه مصطلحات خاصة بالحياة الأمريكية وخاصة بحياة الأمريكيين – العامة – رواد الحانات وساكنو الحمارات.
إستمرارية إستهلاك كلمات الب��اءة بدأت أملّهُ خصوصًا وأنا قرأت كل سيرته الروائية (متواصلة) وهذا الجزء الرابع لذا أشعر بقيمة ما أٍول من تذكري لكثرة حديث الجنس والنساء وكأنه فيلم إباحي تعيد مشاهدته مرة تلو مرة تلو مرة. لولا الكوكيديا الساخرة التي تنتشر بين مقاطع الكتاب لكان الوضع مختلف.
في هذا الجزء يعود بوكوفسكي أو نقل بطل النص "هنري تشيناسكي" للجذور – الولادة. يقوم بتشريح المكان والزمان من خلال العائلة، والأفعال التي سوف تعشش في ذاكرته لسنوات طويلة. هنا أعتقد بدأت أعي بعض أفكار وحياة بوكوفسكي... هنا في هذا الجزء الطفولة والمراهقة والضرب بواسطة حزام البنطلون - يبدو أنه أداة الضرب الوحيدة ي ذلك الوقت- والتعرف على الكحول الطريق الذي سيوجعنا به بوكوفسكي. طوال حياته. كذلك توثق الرواية لأثر الكساد الذي ضرب أمريكا وغيرها بسبب الحرب العالمية الثانية. كذلك شباب بوكوفسكي المضطرب تجده في كل هذه الرواية بين ألمانيا وامريكا.
التطور الذي حدث في مستوى اللغة الشعرية عند بوكوفسكي ينطلق من طاولات مدرسته وهو صغير ومن منزله حيث والده الذي يبدو أنه ورث عنه قاموسًا ��ضاف له الكثير. كنت أقف مستغربًآ بين قدرة هذا الرجل على التمادي في الشتم واللعن وذكر تفاصيل الحياة الجنسية.. أعتقد كنت أشعر به يفجّر ذلك الغضب على الورق وأتخيل يعلم أنه يكرر نفسه لكن يأبى الوقوف.
سير الرواية من ناحية البناء جيد جدًا.
يصّور طفولته والحياة الإمريكية إبان الحرب العالمية الثانية في لغة سردية رائعة، ورغم شاعرية بوكفسكي إلا أنه ذكي في الرواية لا يتكلف في النص. قرأت له روايتان بلغتها الأم. حقيقة لا يتكلف رغم أن لديه مصطلحات خاصة بالحياة الأمريكية وخاصة بحياة الأمريكيين – العامة – رواد الحانات وساكنو الحمارات.
إستمرارية إستهلاك كلمات الب��اءة بدأت أملّهُ خصوصًا وأنا قرأت كل سيرته الروائية (متواصلة) وهذا الجزء الرابع لذا أشعر بقيمة ما أٍول من تذكري لكثرة حديث الجنس والنساء وكأنه فيلم إباحي تعيد مشاهدته مرة تلو مرة تلو مرة. لولا الكوكيديا الساخرة التي تنتشر بين مقاطع الكتاب لكان الوضع مختلف.
June 7, 2007
I hate Charles Bukowski.
August 16, 2016
Holy shit!
This is the story of Henry Chenaski, Charles Bukowski’s alter ego, who had a helluva depressing childhood in large part due to a father who was a real son of a bitch and whom I blame for Henry’s later love of the bottle, to a lesser extent due to the Depression that hit the States, and Los Angeles, when Henry grew up.
My heart bled for young Henry; like when his father forced him to mow the lawn when all the other kids on the street were out playing. When Henry was done, his father put his head down on the lawn, cheek on grass, spotted a stray blade of grass and .
There was something about his loneliness and his plight, in the first part of the book, which reminded me of Holden Cauldfield ( The Catcher in the Rye). Both Henry and Holden throw around goddamned tough language whenever possible but are essentially lost kids. (There’s even the word ‘rye’ in the titles of both stories, surely two of the only titles in literary history to use that word).
Apart from his pestilential father, Henry suffered from the meanest boils imaginable and went through a horrible ordeal for years trying to get rid of them while being painfully aware that a head full of boils (not to mention a back) didn’t exactly attract the girls. At this point he met one of the few good people to cross his path during his childhood, the nurse who treated him for the boils: ‘She was the kindest person I’d met in eight years.’ (Henry’s mother wasn’t unkind to Henry; she just didn’t stop Henry’s father but rather joined Henry in his victimhood).
As Henry grew up, the graphic details increased. There were perhaps one or two of these I could have done without, but you sense it’s part of the honesty project here; if Henry (a.k.a. Charles) thought about these things – as there’s evidence to support he did, excessively so – they went into the book. He got more obsessed with girls (and their legs, and their hair, and their….), and as he grew older, he became obsessed with women. And with booze. He turned into the Bukowski I’d read about. This novel provided much of the background.
Here’s another classic and perhaps even defining situation: Right after his high school graduation, Henry’s father is – once again – on Henry’s case about not amounting to much. ‘Why did I have a son like you?’ he says to Henry, comparing him to some other kid. ‘How come you never applied yourself?’ etc. etc. No congratulations, no ‘good job, son – you did what I never managed to do’. None of that. I found myself saying out loud,
While I felt for the kid Henry Chenaski, I felt increasingly annoyed with his unpleasant adult self who, perhaps unsurprisingly, seemed bent on drinking himself into a stupor and general oblivion whenever possible, picking fights and heading deliberately for the low life on skid row. As a young man he seemed determined to become a loser while disdaining anyone who wasn’t. Though somehow: Who could blame him?
It felt good to sit alone in a small space and smoke and drink. I had always been good company for myself.
Henry’s existential derailment seemed circular and monotonous towards the end, which perhaps underlines the authenticity and the tragedy of his life if not the sense of literary appreciation on my part. Still, there were many linguistic gems – in that completely non-show-off-y kind of way, which in some ways also characterizes Catcher: an informal, mid-20th century, colloquial tone which lays bare a life, sometimes annoys, sometimes draws on your sympathy, sometimes makes you laugh and often gives you glimpses of what kind of writer Hank/Charles was to become.
Potential landlord: You working?
Henry: I’m a writer
PL: You don’t look like a writer
H: What do they look like?
Even in Henry’s increasing feeling of alienation, we sense something else underneath the scarred surface, an energy with which he might learn to suppress his apparent death wish.
Words weren’t dull, words were things that could make your mind hum. If you read them and let yourself feel the magic, you could live without pain, with hope, no matter what happened to you.
This is the story of Henry Chenaski, Charles Bukowski’s alter ego, who had a helluva depressing childhood in large part due to a father who was a real son of a bitch and whom I blame for Henry’s later love of the bottle, to a lesser extent due to the Depression that hit the States, and Los Angeles, when Henry grew up.
My heart bled for young Henry; like when his father forced him to mow the lawn when all the other kids on the street were out playing. When Henry was done, his father put his head down on the lawn, cheek on grass, spotted a stray blade of grass and .
There was something about his loneliness and his plight, in the first part of the book, which reminded me of Holden Cauldfield ( The Catcher in the Rye). Both Henry and Holden throw around goddamned tough language whenever possible but are essentially lost kids. (There’s even the word ‘rye’ in the titles of both stories, surely two of the only titles in literary history to use that word).
Apart from his pestilential father, Henry suffered from the meanest boils imaginable and went through a horrible ordeal for years trying to get rid of them while being painfully aware that a head full of boils (not to mention a back) didn’t exactly attract the girls. At this point he met one of the few good people to cross his path during his childhood, the nurse who treated him for the boils: ‘She was the kindest person I’d met in eight years.’ (Henry’s mother wasn’t unkind to Henry; she just didn’t stop Henry’s father but rather joined Henry in his victimhood).
As Henry grew up, the graphic details increased. There were perhaps one or two of these I could have done without, but you sense it’s part of the honesty project here; if Henry (a.k.a. Charles) thought about these things – as there’s evidence to support he did, excessively so – they went into the book. He got more obsessed with girls (and their legs, and their hair, and their….), and as he grew older, he became obsessed with women. And with booze. He turned into the Bukowski I’d read about. This novel provided much of the background.
Here’s another classic and perhaps even defining situation: Right after his high school graduation, Henry’s father is – once again – on Henry’s case about not amounting to much. ‘Why did I have a son like you?’ he says to Henry, comparing him to some other kid. ‘How come you never applied yourself?’ etc. etc. No congratulations, no ‘good job, son – you did what I never managed to do’. None of that. I found myself saying out loud,
While I felt for the kid Henry Chenaski, I felt increasingly annoyed with his unpleasant adult self who, perhaps unsurprisingly, seemed bent on drinking himself into a stupor and general oblivion whenever possible, picking fights and heading deliberately for the low life on skid row. As a young man he seemed determined to become a loser while disdaining anyone who wasn’t. Though somehow: Who could blame him?
It felt good to sit alone in a small space and smoke and drink. I had always been good company for myself.
Henry’s existential derailment seemed circular and monotonous towards the end, which perhaps underlines the authenticity and the tragedy of his life if not the sense of literary appreciation on my part. Still, there were many linguistic gems – in that completely non-show-off-y kind of way, which in some ways also characterizes Catcher: an informal, mid-20th century, colloquial tone which lays bare a life, sometimes annoys, sometimes draws on your sympathy, sometimes makes you laugh and often gives you glimpses of what kind of writer Hank/Charles was to become.
Potential landlord: You working?
Henry: I’m a writer
PL: You don’t look like a writer
H: What do they look like?
Even in Henry’s increasing feeling of alienation, we sense something else underneath the scarred surface, an energy with which he might learn to suppress his apparent death wish.
Words weren’t dull, words were things that could make your mind hum. If you read them and let yourself feel the magic, you could live without pain, with hope, no matter what happened to you.
September 8, 2021
در خوندن این کتاب معنای واقعی پارادوکس رو احساس کردم: داستان تلخی که سرشار از طنزه
February 11, 2024
Henry Chinaski, our fellow laureate of American lowlife, is back and "younger" than ever!
Sharp, honest, and crude that's how Bukowski delights his readers, in his special and humorous way. In this novel, Bukowski narrates his youngest years. Like the previous novels, Ham on Rye narrates his childhood, between the years of 1920 and 1941. It begins with Chinaski's early years in Germany, with his own grandmother ranting at him and his family "I will bury all of you" until young adulthood, jobless and living like a bum. Chinaski recounts his experiences with his abusive father and idled mother. He hates them and narrates all of it, in a simple manner. Furthermore, during his early school years, Henry befriends and unfriends his school colleagues, most of them poor, just like Chinaski himself. Most of them are temporary people in Chinaski's alienated life. Sports are too hard for him, violence is the easiest escape and masturbation is his newest amusement. As Henry's school progresses, he suffers from severe Acne and dwells in his own frustration towards his colleagues, neighbors and family members. Meanwhile, our fellow Protagonist develops his self-interest in literature, alcohol, cigarettes, fights and female anatomy.
"Ham on Rye" is more than a story about a frustrated kid with his (cliché) teen questions - “What a weary time those years were -- to have the desire and the need to live but not the ability.” - It's a teenage diary written by a nostalgic and mature adult. Unrefined and amusing, that's Chinaski's early life concerning relationships, poorness, societal values and growing up. The protagonist is indeed a misanthropic anti-hero - “The best thing about the bedroom was the bed. I liked to stay in bed for hours, even during the day with covers pulled up to my chin. It was good in there, nothing ever occurred in there, no people, nothing.” - but also a little warrior who has to face the struggles of harsh periods, such as the great depression of the US, his family issues, and all conflicts within himself. Any reader might identify himself with Chinaski's personal struggles, and that's what makes this novel so Great. Personal struggles, reality escapes, and the " individual against the system" subject look like revolutionary acts at the eyes of any teen. Childhood is a period of change, a complicated leap, but, Charles Bukowski ironically manages to recreate his greatest experiences, in a raw and uncomplicated way. Bukowski's story-telling and sincerity, spiced with black humour, are the main elements to excite most of the readers , and that's what makes him so Great, a tough guy writer with a poetic soul.
“It was a joy! Words weren't dull, words were things that could make your mind hum. If you read them and let yourself feel the magic, you could live without pain, with hope, no matter what happened to you.”
Rating: 5/5
Sharp, honest, and crude that's how Bukowski delights his readers, in his special and humorous way. In this novel, Bukowski narrates his youngest years. Like the previous novels, Ham on Rye narrates his childhood, between the years of 1920 and 1941. It begins with Chinaski's early years in Germany, with his own grandmother ranting at him and his family "I will bury all of you" until young adulthood, jobless and living like a bum. Chinaski recounts his experiences with his abusive father and idled mother. He hates them and narrates all of it, in a simple manner. Furthermore, during his early school years, Henry befriends and unfriends his school colleagues, most of them poor, just like Chinaski himself. Most of them are temporary people in Chinaski's alienated life. Sports are too hard for him, violence is the easiest escape and masturbation is his newest amusement. As Henry's school progresses, he suffers from severe Acne and dwells in his own frustration towards his colleagues, neighbors and family members. Meanwhile, our fellow Protagonist develops his self-interest in literature, alcohol, cigarettes, fights and female anatomy.
"Ham on Rye" is more than a story about a frustrated kid with his (cliché) teen questions - “What a weary time those years were -- to have the desire and the need to live but not the ability.” - It's a teenage diary written by a nostalgic and mature adult. Unrefined and amusing, that's Chinaski's early life concerning relationships, poorness, societal values and growing up. The protagonist is indeed a misanthropic anti-hero - “The best thing about the bedroom was the bed. I liked to stay in bed for hours, even during the day with covers pulled up to my chin. It was good in there, nothing ever occurred in there, no people, nothing.” - but also a little warrior who has to face the struggles of harsh periods, such as the great depression of the US, his family issues, and all conflicts within himself. Any reader might identify himself with Chinaski's personal struggles, and that's what makes this novel so Great. Personal struggles, reality escapes, and the " individual against the system" subject look like revolutionary acts at the eyes of any teen. Childhood is a period of change, a complicated leap, but, Charles Bukowski ironically manages to recreate his greatest experiences, in a raw and uncomplicated way. Bukowski's story-telling and sincerity, spiced with black humour, are the main elements to excite most of the readers , and that's what makes him so Great, a tough guy writer with a poetic soul.
“It was a joy! Words weren't dull, words were things that could make your mind hum. If you read them and let yourself feel the magic, you could live without pain, with hope, no matter what happened to you.”
Rating: 5/5
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