Henry 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 (1994), (1993), and (1992).
He died of leukemia in San Pedro on March 9, 1994.
Pulp is the last completed novel by Los Angeles poet and writer Charles Bukowski. It was published in 1994, shortly before Bukowski's death.
Pulp is a pulp fiction novel which acts also as a meta-pulp. Pulp comments on the obsessions of the pulp fiction genre, making fun of itself as stereotypical of the genre in the grimiest form.
Bukowski dedicates the story to "bad writing", as Bukowski did not plan his mystery novel well and frequently wrote Nicky Belane into holes from which he could not escape.
Bukowski wrote some of his most violent, cynical, sarcastic, and shocking work during the final months of his life. Many critics have agreed this novel exemplifies Bukowski showing an acceptance of his own pending mortality.
For newcomers to the world of Charles Bukowski, be forewarned: Pulp is probably not the best place to start.
I say this, not because it doesn鈥檛 rank right up there with his other books, or because greener readers will fail to grasp the allusions to earlier work it contains, but rather because as his ultimate novel (completed months before his death) Pulp can easily be seen as Bukowski鈥檚 final farewell. In it, the aged author takes his readers on one last foray into familiar territories of sex, madness, and death, while at the same time expanding on those themes in brilliant and often unexpected ways. Drawing on science fiction and hardboiled noir elements as well, the end result is a bizarre send-up of genre fiction that is just as hilarious and insightful as anything else he ever wrote.
In any case, 鈥渇arewell鈥� hardly seems the proper way to begin one鈥檚 relationship with a writer who spent the better part of five decades compiling such an impressive body of work. Should readers feel obligated to start with Bukowski鈥檚 vast catalogue of poems, novels, and short stories if they expect to enjoy Pulp? Certainly not. But since they鈥檇 be missing out on some of the best American literature ever written in bypassing these altogether, astute readers would do well to check out a few of his other books as well.
But this is supposed to be a review of Pulp, now isn鈥檛 it?
The plot follows the convoluted capers of one Nick Belane, a down on his luck private eye who somehow manages to stumble upon the case of the century. Well, more like a handful of cases 鈥� each of them equally obtuse, and none of them leading anywhere but ever deeper into a darkly comic existential nightmare. Initially retained by Lady Death (a literal femme fatale) to track down the presumably long-dead French novelist, 颁茅濒颈苍别, the plot thickens as Belane is also hired by a husband who suspects his wife of cheating, a mortician in search of a body-snatching space alien, and yet another client who asks him to find someone or something known only as the 鈥淩ed Sparrow.鈥�
Plot-wise that鈥檚 about all you really need to know about Pulp, but if plot and character development are what you鈥檙e after in a book, then this one probably isn鈥檛 for you. Many times throughout his career Bukowski was quoted as saying 鈥済enius might be the ability to say a profound thing in a simple way.鈥� This austere philosophy of writing is perhaps most succinctly put by the pithy epitaph adorning his tombstone: DON鈥橳 TRY. Whether Bukowski was a genius himself, or whether his final piece of advice should apply to all writers 鈥� these are subjects for another time. The point here is that, like Hemingway at his best, Bukowski managed to provoke a breadth and depth of intellectual and emotional responses in his work using only a sparse economy of words and dialogue, and Pulp is no exception.
A large portion of Bukowski鈥檚 writing had a satirical bent to it, and though it would be a simplification to label him a satirist outright, there can be no denying that much of his fiction contains a strong element of lampoon. Whether denigrating himself or poking fun at such sacrosanct notions as god, country, and anything else associated with the American herd mentality, one cannot read Bukowski and come away without noticing the inordinate amount of tongue in his cheek. In Pulp, Bukowski sets his sights on writing itself 鈥� specifically, the more contrived conventions of genre writing.
It is no coincidence, after all, that Pulp is called what it鈥檚 called (the title being a reference to tawdry dime novels of times past) or that the book itself is dedicated 鈥渢o bad writing.鈥� Still, if there is any writer capable of taking something bad and making it so much worse that it ends up being good, it is Bukowski. Consider the following excerpt from chapter nine:
***
I had to straighten out the Celine matter and find the Red Sparrow and here was this flabby ball of flesh worried because his wife was screwing somebody.
Then he spoke. 鈥淚 just want to find out. I just want to find out for myself.鈥�
鈥淚 don鈥檛 come cheap.鈥�
鈥淗ow much鈥�?
鈥�6 bucks an hour.鈥�
鈥淭hat doesn鈥檛 seem like much money.鈥�
鈥淒oes to me. You got a photo of your wife?鈥�
He dug into his wallet, come up with one, handed it to me.
I looked at it.
鈥淥h my! Does she really look like this?鈥�
鈥渊别蝉.鈥�
鈥淚鈥檓 getting a hard-on just looking at this.鈥�
鈥淗ey, don鈥檛 be a wise guy!鈥�
鈥淥h, sorry鈥� But I鈥檒l have to keep the photo. I鈥檒l return it when I鈥檓 finished.鈥�
I put it in my wallet.
鈥淚s she still living with you?鈥�
鈥渊别蝉.鈥�
鈥淎nd you go to work?鈥�
鈥渊别蝉.鈥�
鈥淎nd then, sometimes, she鈥︹€�
鈥渊别蝉.鈥�
鈥淎nd what makes you think she鈥︹€�
鈥淭ips, phone calls, voices in my head, her changed behavior, any number of things.鈥�
I pushed a notepad toward him.
鈥淧ut down your address, home and business, phone, home and business. I鈥檒l take it from here. I鈥檒l nail her ass to the wall. I鈥檒l uncover the whole thing.鈥�
鈥淲丑补迟?鈥�
鈥淚 am accepting this case, Mr. Bass. Upon its fruition you will be informed.鈥�
鈥溾€楩ruition鈥�?鈥� he asked. 鈥淟isten, are you alright?鈥�
鈥淚鈥檓 straight. How about you?鈥�
鈥淥h yeah, I鈥檓 alright.鈥�
鈥淭hen don鈥檛 worry, I鈥檓 your man, I鈥檒l nail her ass!鈥�
Bass rose slowly from his chair. He moved toward the door, then turned.
鈥淏arton recommended you.鈥�
鈥淭here you go then! Good afternoon, Mr. Bass.鈥�
The door closed and he was gone. Good old Barton.
I took her photo out of my wallet and sat there looking at it.
You bitch, I thought, you bitch.
I got up and locked the door, then took the phone off the hook. I sat behind my desk looking at the photo.
You bitch, I thought, I鈥檒l nail your ass! Against the wall! No mercy for you! I鈥檒l catch you in the act! I鈥檒l catch you at it! You whore, you bitch, you whore!
I began breathing heavily. I unzipped. Then the earthquake hit. I dropped the photo and ducked under the desk. It was a good one. Around a 6. Felt like it lasted a couple of minutes. Then it stopped. I crawled out from under the desk, still unzipped. I found the photo again, put it back in my wallet, zipped up. Sex was a trap, a snare. It was for animals. I had too much sense for that kind of crap. I put the phone back on the hook, opened the door, stepped out, locked it and walked down to the elevator. I had work to do. I was the best dick in L.A. and Hollywood. I hit the button and waited for the fucking elevator to come on up.
***
A bit juvenile for the writing of a 73-year-old man? Perhaps. But what Bukowski is up to in this book is not very different from what he鈥檚 been up to in all the rest 鈥� painting an unapologetic portrait of people as they are (often at their worst), their absurd and futile lives rendered in full view with frank realism and, usually, great humor. Bukowski laughs at the ineffectual, masturbating detective because he really does deserve to be laughed at. And yet Belane is allowed to continue with some semblance of decency, because if there鈥檚 one thing we could all use more of, it鈥檚 probably that.
Pulp is a book that will make fans of sci-fi and detective genre writing wonder what might have been, had Bukowski decided to produce more in those veins (satirical or otherwise). Still, as evidenced by two previously uncollected stories in the recent Portions from a Wine-Stained Notebook 鈥� 鈥淭he Other鈥� and 鈥淭he Way it Happened鈥� 鈥� Bukowski was never quite so two-dimensional in style and subject matter as his critics would have us believe. Pulp is not exactly his first trip into the realm of private eyes and the paranormal, so it should come as no surprise how readily these seemingly foreign elements are assimilated into his more standard tale of bars, brawls, and broads.
Bukowski鈥檚 earliest novels, Post Office and Factotum, did much to solidify his reputation as a writer of the streets, his own life closely reflecting that of his tenderhearted tough guy alter ego, Henry Chinaski. Later efforts like Women and Ham on Rye continued this literary development, while at the same time nurturing an increasingly effective autobiographical honesty. With Pulp, we are given the impression that Bukowski could鈥檝e continued writing forever about anything, had Lady Death not finally seen fit to extricate him and his typer from this plane for good.
Pulp is the only one of Charles Bukowski鈥檚 novels that鈥檚 not written from the perspective of Bukowski鈥檚 alter ego, Henry Chinaski. After all the agonized and hilarious autobiographical accounts of pain, frustration, poor health and madness of his earlier novels, the great man had at last come to a subject too enormous and painful to deal with directly. This was Bukowski鈥檚 last novel, published in 1994, the same year he died of leukemia at the age of 73. As he was writing this book, he knew his days were numbered, which saddens me, as would loved to have seen him go out in blaze of filthy glory with something similar to 'Women' or 'Factotum'. Just with a vulgar and laugh-out-nature that goes into overdrive, one final swansong that says 'fuck you'. After all this was what he will always be remembered for. Not for trying to be Chandler.
Bukowski鈥檚 final novel is written as an allegory. It鈥檚 a parody of the hard-boiled detective genre, with Bukowski鈥檚 hero/narrator named 鈥淣icky Belane.鈥� Belane spends most of the book looking for a mysterious 鈥淩ed Sparrow,鈥� a thinly-veiled reference to Dashiell Hammett鈥檚 Maltese Falcon, but also a shout-out to his publisher, Black Sparrow Press, which saved him from his hated job at the Post Office and first financed his writing full-time. Belane鈥檚 first client, Lady Death, hires him to find the long-deceased novelist Celine, one of Bukowski鈥檚 role models as a writer.
Although many moments in Pulp are pretty damn funny, the fact there is no Hank just left me feeling a bit empty. The characters we encounter could have been taken from any of the old classic detective novels, so there is nothing really new here. Belane鈥檚 innermost thoughts, recurring throughout the novel, are focused on Bukowski鈥檚 feelings about his own imminent death, and his struggle to make sense of the inevitable, this was hard going for me, and I admit to shedding a tear, feeling sad about Bukowski distracted me from the plot.
But fear not!, Second reading things clicked better, and I just went with it, that's what Charlie would have have wanted.(reading partly in a bar helped!). Bukowski is probably up there now, drunk, in a slumber, and urinating over the world below, hope the lord can forgive him, if not, bollocks then!.
Pulp is Charles Bukowski鈥檚 last book. So you get curious about that, a dying man鈥檚 last words. Is it the foxhole confession at last for a life-long unapologetic vulgarian? Nah. True to his stolid commitment to self-deprecation, satire of pretentiousness and constant drunkenness, Bukowksi, knowing he has little time left, pens his first non-Henry Chinaski fiction, and dedicates it to 鈥渂ad writing.鈥� His target here is noir fiction, ala Mickey Spillane, with Bukowski鈥檚 version named Nicky Belane. It鈥檚 a wild often hilarious mishmash of satire of pseudo-existentialist crime fiction--"We are all born to die. We are all born to live"--where Bellane searches for a Red Sparrow (as in Maltese Falcon) and avoids Lady Death. The idea, as it is so many detective stories, is that the detective is searching for clues to a mystery as he searches for the mystery of his own existence.
This mystery idea always has had some interesting thematic potential. It actually describes some of the work of Nobel Prize winning writer Patric Modiano (i.e., Missing Person), who uses this theme with serious intent, and successfully. Bukowski, isn't disinterested in the relationship between his work as a writer and his mortality, but he mostly plays the theme for laughs here through detective Belane.
鈥淚t wasn鈥檛 my day. My week. My month. My year. My life. God damn it.鈥�
鈥淚'm not dead yet, just in a state of rapid decay, who isn't?鈥�
鈥淚 gave him my code name. 'This is Mr. Slow Death.鈥欌€�
There are literary tributes to his favorite writers, Celine and Fante, and plenty of booze and broads and bad jokes, natch. And space aliens instead of angels.
This should not be the first or only Bukowski you read, and it is not his best work, but my basic three star rating of this book adds a star because of the laugh-out load humor he faces death with. I like and admire that.
There鈥檚 a bunch of good reviews, but I like this one a lot, from Arthur. I was going to just cut and paste some of what he quotes from the book, but wth, here鈥檚 the review:
鈥淚t wasn鈥檛 my day. My week. My month. My year. My life. God damn it.鈥�
Filthy, sleazy, surreal and hilarious: Bukowski's final completed novel, Pulp is a pulp-fiction parody novel which centers on themes of death and betrayal. The story follows the perspective of Nicky Belane, a hard-boiled, old-timer detective in L.A. trying to solve several strange, surreal interconnected cases by waiting them out.
鈥淚'm not dead yet, just in a state of rapid decay, who isn't?鈥�
Much of the writing is Bukowski musing about mortality and there are several metaphors signifying death. Bukowski dedicates the story to "bad writing", as Bukowski did not plan his mystery novel well and frequently wrote Nicky Belane into holes from which he could not escape. Bukowski wrote some of his most violent, cynical, sarcastic, and shocking work during the final months of his life. Many critics have agreed this novel exemplifies Bukowski showing an acceptance of his own pending mortality.
The story also makes multiple references to men of literature across the ages.
-> The name of character Nicky Belane rhymes suggestively with the name of author Mickey Spillane.
-> The Red Sparrow is a spoof of the Black Sparrow Press, owned by John Martin, who is parodied as John Barton in the novel.
-> The story mentions William Faulkners' As I Lay Dying multiple times. There is also a character signifying French author .
At times rip roaring and at times downbeat sci-fi hard boiled thriller from Bukowski. Pulp is spectacular. Bukowki at his audacious best, spoofing (actually shitting on) hard boiled crime thrillers and sci-fi novels. He dedicates the novel to bad writing. He did not think much about Mickey Spillaine, if my memory serves me right.
Bukowski is in the form of his life here. The humor is brilliant. Like in the scene where Nick Belane, the world weary private eye detective protagonist walks into a bar and orders two Chinese beers. The waitress and bouncer take offence and ask him why he couldn't order a beer and order the second one after he's done with the first, so that the second stays cold. Belane's reply - "Look, the reason is security, a subconscious need for security. I had a rotten childhood. Two bottles at once fills a void that needs filling. Maybe. I am not sure." The novel is filled with such hilarious scenes where Belane walks into a bar and somebody is always messing with him, never letting him drink in peace. On top of that, he has to stave off alien invaders who force him to become their ally, hunt for the Red Sparrow, bust Cindy Bass who is cheating on her husband and deal with Lady Death who wants him to find Celine (yes, that Celine!)
The social commentary is sharp - "Something was always after a man. It never relented. No rest, ever."
Or this:
鈥�We waited and waited. All of us. Didn't the shrink know that waiting was one of the things that drove people crazy? People waited all their lives. They waited to live, they waited to die. They waited in line to buy toilet paper. They waited in line for money. And if they didn't have any money they waited in longer lines. You waited to go to sleep and then you waited to awaken. You waited to get married and you waited to get divorced. You waited for it to rain, you waited for it to stop. You waited to eat and then you waited to eat again. You waited in a shrink's office with a bunch of psychos and you wondered if you were one.鈥�
Bukowski easily combines over the top action and humor, sharp social commentary and the theme of death without any of it coming off as malapropos. He just hit the ball out of the park in his last novel. A sensational farewell.
Bukowski blends playful dialogue with existential musings. The novel critiques societal norms through its flawed characters. The novel reflects on the nature of writing and creativity.
"'This whole thing is a bad senseless dream,' I said" (200).
That about sums it up; except it isn't bad. It's not good either. I felt like Bukowski was just playing a joke on his readers the whole time, like "hey, let me just write some outlandish fiction with an absurd, nonsensical plot and someone will publish it and lots of people will read it. And I'm going to do that because I can." And he did. And he makes writing seem so easy. And this makes me think that I could write a book like this: simple sentences, cliched dialogue, random plot, poorly developed characters. And I know I can't (yet, he tells himself optimistically), which is one of the reasons I liked this book--he makes it seem easy. I could read this cover to cover without getting bored by the prosaic writing or the trite characters (Death, aliens, Louis Ferdinand-Celine, a more than a few cartoon thugs). And it's because Bukowski somehow makes all that crap palatable.