I wrote this note almost two years ago, when I had just started my writing journey and was still barely dipping my toes into literature. Back then, everything surprised me, and I hadn’t had a chance to read much more disturbing literature. I still think that Bukowski’s strange obsession with rape is suspicious, to say the least, but since then, I have read much more terrible and hardcore “rape fantasies” by so-called progressive modern writers. Now, I find Bukowski’s short stories much less disturbing (though I still prefer his poetry; like his novels, it just works better for me).
So, recently I started reading Bukowski’s short stories. South of No North, they are called. I’m somewhere in the middle of the book. And man, I have some certain strange feelings about those short stories. I don’t know why, but I think in 90% of the stories I read, there’s a certain vibe. I would dare to say a kind of rapey vibe. You feel me?
Well, let’s go straight to the topic. I don’t want to dance around it, tell all the good, the neutral, and other shit before going straight to the chase. In 90% of his stories, there’s an ongoing topic of rape. Doesn’t matter the setting – Wild West, road trip, theft, bar, and yada-yada. There’s always some sort of rape going on or about to happen.
Usually, it’s either the main character or the character who has the most presence (if it’s not written in the first person). And in the majority of situations, they are mean, tough, and charismatic bastards (at least, that’s how they are presented). And they rape women. Basically, every story is a story about how, in one way or another, they raped some women. Or killed someone. Or killed and raped someone. Sometimes in this particular order. The end.
And since I spoiled you the plot for the majority of short stories in this book (and, eh, I’m not sure, to be honest, whether all shorts he ever wrote are like that), I’m going to spoil it for you even more. Women, while in the beginning somewhat against it (not very vocally, I would say), by the end of the said rape – love it. In one instance, they even killed their man since the rapist was better. Or were ready to leave their educated, rich husbands because the raging uneducated alcoholic (aka Bukowski) fucks much better and is the real man who knows the life. Basically makes them look like worthless whores ready to sell their souls for a bad guy’s good cock (turkeyneck, as Bukowski loved to write it).
Now, it’s not a mystery that Bukowski had this ongoing rather weird thing about women. I think it’s not a shocker that in the majority of his art, females are put in a negative light, but I think that’s what you get when you’re a raging alcoholic who spent the majority of time with whores, prostitutes, winos, loonies, psychos, fanatics and any combination of the up-mentioned (sometimes all-in-one package). I see where this disgust toward women comes from – you live among low-lives, you start thinking everyone’s like that when in reality you need to change the room (which is hard to do when you’re an antisocial alcoholic with potential split-personality, where one tells you you’re the genius, the best thing that ever happened to the literature and the other one tells you you’re nothing, empty space and should be dead long ago).
I know those stories would make certain people go bizarre. Demand to cancel him (even though he already canceled his life subscription thirty years ago), burn his books, and all this crap. Me? Nah. I’m against rape, and, to be completely honest, reading those short stories ain’t much fun either. But there’s something strange to them, you know? Like, you’re reading them, and you don’t feel any kind of disgust, or dread, fear, tension, or whatever that kind of terrible and traumatic things can be associated with (and what some authors manage to convey). In Bukowski’s short stories, it feels as if some horny teenager wrote his fetishes on paper. And it actually reads in the same way – as if you’re reading wet fantasies of a horny teenager who still didn’t discover weird Japanese porn (taking into account the times when he wrote it, I think there was no chance he would even see this Japanese porn).
And that’s actually strange, if I may be honest with you. Since I love his poetry, it tells the story, has rhythm, it’s entertaining, and all this stuff that makes it fun to read. And I love his novels because, well, I love the way they are written. I love the style, the manner, the atmosphere of gritty despair, a story told through the prism of a man who dropped out on the outskirts of life yet is still able to laugh and make fun of himself and the whole fucking world. And all of a sudden short stories feel different. As if he was too drunk when he wrote them and forgot to add the same thing, he criticized Hemingway for – humor. There’s no message, no philosophy, no story, no real rant. There are just horny fantasies about rape and tough characters (actually reminds me a lot about his story in his novel Ham on Rye, where he came up with this character of his – nazi pilot, who was the best in everything, perhaps in rape too because how otherwise would you explain his 100% success rate with women with his ugly face and missing arm (if I’m not mixing anything)). And that’s weird.
You see, Bukowski’s art, for me, is a rather weird thing. I don’t agree with him on many things, yet, I still want to read what he thinks, how he expresses it. It’s like I know that in many instances, he defends being a raging drunk and total anti-social loser, yet at the same thing, he spits a lot of interesting philosophy. Like on writing – you want to write? You just shut the fuck up, sit and write. That’s all to it. And I support this message (on contrary to those pretentious assholes who try to make writing look like some kind of activity for the chosen ones). I don’t support that he considered (at least in his books and stories) himself the best writer of them all, and all other writers around are terrible, bad, and pretentious. His hatred toward women (I was blessed to be surrounded by good women) and, in general, promotion of alcoholism (and I would say even taking some pride in it). But that’s what makes it distinct. You open his novel, and if someone didn’t puke, took a shit, drank a fifth of whiskey, smoked a cheap cigar or cigarette, didn’t drink beer leftovers mixed with cigarette ashes, or fucked in the nearest ten pages, you start to suspect that it wasn’t written by Bukowski.
So what are the conclusions? Well, it’s a strange theme going on in his short stories. At first, it felt like one of his signature I’ll tell you the story others are too afraid to tell, but then when the same theme repeats almost ten times in a row… yeah, that’s strange and makes you wonder whether he trolls you or he’s a genuine incel-edge-lord. But, as I said, I’m going to finish it. Then probably would give a shot to Kurt Vonnegut (never read him before). Maybe then have one book by Palahniuk again and then try to read another Bukowski book with short stories. Also, I don’t remember whether I’ve mentioned it already or not, but I’m currently listening to The Idiot by Dostoevsky, all 25 hours of it. While the translation to the English language is simply beautiful (whoever translated it really was passionate about his work), the characters there… man, they are so fucking dumb. I love them. I learn a lot about how to create irrational, psychotic, dumb as fucking trees, and still fun characters from Dostoevsky. Maybe when I’ll finish listening to it, I’ll express my vocal and completely unnecessary opinion on this immortal classic satiric comedy.
Oh, and regarding Bukowski, there was a good short story about the war and how it all felt in those days. Very sober thought from an alcoholic, all of a sudden. And also, I liked his story about a cannibal, even though it’s once again full of hatred toward women, still the setting, the dialogues, and the twist in the end – it would make a rather fun dark comedy. I’m sure. Now, if you excuse me, I have to finish this book of short stories.