Women: A Novel - Charles Bukowski

If I was a book reader during Bukowski's lifetime, I'd say my goal in life was to out live him so I didn't have to read any of his work. I'm finding it difficult to out live his legacy so I was forced to read a novel - something - by this man. I chose Women for no reason. Officially it is about a fictional writer, but basically it's a day to day account of Bukowski's continious affairs with women and half baked ideas about writing, art, women, education and everything else. Nothing he says is insightful or interesting. It is the parading of a man who lives for his ridiculousnesss because it is celebrated by others. There is no dimension to the character in this novel. It's about a three hundred page effort, but all the true character detail about Bukowski the person amounts only to a page. At the end the novel tries a rectification project by setting up a plot that truly pains Bukowski to his core and makes him re-examine himself, but it is too weak to have any conviction. It is closer to the wind down period of a drunk going through withdrawals and remorse before he sobers up. Whose to say the drunk won't just get drink again the next night? Bukowski makes an effort to correct his problems, but his self centered nature still exists. The attempt at redemption is a blow job attempt for anyone put off by how ridiculous the rest of the novel is. The people that hate it should hate it. They should because those who love it only do so because Bukowski is their prophet. No comment about that.