Bukowski on Women

Much as I am drawn to Bukowski's writing, his style, his verve, his sheer damn it all too hell honesty, I'm disappointed reading the showy book 'Women', which strikes an unusually contemptible note. Exaggeration is rife, it's as though he's desperate to convince the reader. Henry Miller made a far greater fist of it. (No sexual pun intended) Much of it I'm sure is true Bukowski, but then much of it is preening and humbug, combined with the familiar (in male literature) expressions of disgust toward women. Bukowski is revealed here (through Chinaski) as having a good dose of commoner gardener puritanism, fearful and contemptuous of females, often narrow minded, occasionally priggish, but ultimately without compassion, mistaking abuse for freedom.

My admiration has dimmed somewhat, he's not quite the heoric figure I imagined, a fine writer, one of the very best, but hampered by this commonplace attitude.The obsessive neatness of his prose finally begins to reflect the neatness of his ideas. Was I mistaken about Bukowski? Is he not a writer that goes beyond the margins of so called 'honesty' into truth? Either way it's a shame about the emotional retardation that is so evident in this work. Then again - you could argue - Bukowski's great gift was his willingness to lay bare his flawed and weatherbeaten humanity. Or in this case, his wilful lack of it where women are concerned.

And the verdict? There's the usual fine writing style, and one or two dazzling flashes, but it's a tired book. The novel is ultimately tedious and repetitive, the constant exposition of Chinaski's sexploits, a total bore, like watching an old man jack off in public. Bukowski displays, (along with his genitals), his dissatisfaction with life, with himself, and most of all with women. A depressing book, with dull ideas, and a strong hard streak of Germanic puritanism.