Ham on Rye

“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.”

Vulgarity, pessimism, realism, indifference, and unjustified suffering, greatness and/or simple lives are not guaranteed for every person; life is not fair, and your born into circumstances cannot always be escaped. But that doesn't mean you should just give up. Charles Bukowski would probably tell you to start drinking yourself blacked out drunk, gamble, and to go have plenty of sex. Do whatever the hell you like, and don't be so scared or shy away of it. Be honest to yourself through the regret, the shame, the pain, and the mes; no love without heartache, no meaning without sacrifice, no guts, no glory. You can spend 50 years with no purpose before it finally clicks through the raw pain, but you'll never find it by doing nothing. You need to do something even if it will hurt and cut deeply. “Don't try.” But when whatever urge flowing through you just bursts out on its own without you willing it into existence, then perhaps “If you're going to try, go all the way.” The important things in life should not feel like a choice to you. And other times, maybe the best thing for you in the moment is to get whooped by a young Mexican boy in an arcade game.

Would've been 5 stars if I wasn't completely thrown by the name “Machine Gun Kelly” showing up

Typical American classic, and lol angry white men

The poor had a right to fuck their way through their bad dreams. Sex and drink, and maybe love was all they had.

Not for everyone for sure. Charles B. is not for everyone.
If you have ever seen the dark side of life even just a little, you may have a chance to understand and enjoy his writing.
What a character, life...

My favourite piece of writing by Bukowski so far. He probably wrote Ham on Rye when he reached and age that removed him from his bitter rage that pervades his other novels. It's filled with cynical wit and a perspective of how Bukowski was an outsider since early childhood. My first bildungsroman that I actually enjoyed, it was a good time.

Eh. This book is by far the worst of Bukowski I've read. It's comparatively uninspired and despite having read it only a week ago I can't recall any of it. Don't bother.

Love Bukowski's honesty. And he can spin a lovely phrase at times. But I just don't get anything but pity out of the aimless wanderings of Chinaski. Memorable quotes:

I had decided against religion a couple years back. If it were true, it made fools out of people, or it drew fools. And if it weren't true, the fools were all the more foolish.

And then along came Hemingway. What a thrill! He knew how to lay down the line. 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.

...That's four punches a day. Then you go home, or to your room or wherever, sleep, come back and hit it four more times each working day until you get fired, quit, die, or retire.

Holy crap! Why did you get such an iconic book two stars?!?

The writing was exactly what I love in literature. It was gritty, hard hitting, and it had incredibly short chapters which mimicked the snatches of memory he was trying to convey. This is exactly why I loved reading some of his poetry. You don't get that kind of a “punch” in literature very often.

However, this book angered me to the point where I immediately took it to a used book store to sell because I don't want that kind of filth anywhere near me. Then I realized that someone else may pick it up and be as horrified as I was so I took it back home and threw it in a box.

Needless to say, I'll take my hard-hitting, grittyness from Cormac McCarthy and Vonnegut from now on and I hope to God I never have to read “cunt” that many times in a book again.