A Tribute to Bukowski

Book Review
Pulp by Charles Bukowski
First Published in 1994 by Black Sparrow Press

This Edition Published in 2002 by Ecco(HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.)

This could be the last book I have read by Charles Bukowski. Pulp is different than his others—it’s almost completely fiction as there are only a few autobiographical elements to it, alcohol being the most prominent.

Nick Belane is a private detective in Los Angeles in 1993. His first client asks him to find the real Celine. His next mission is to find the Red Sparrow. As bizarre as it sounds, as it unfolds the story gets even more peculiar and delusional, to both the protagonist and reader. But the old Bukowski touch is still there:

“Well, to hell with it. I pulled out the vodka and had a hit.

Often the best parts of life were when you weren’t doing anything at all, just mulling it over, chewing on it. I mean say that you figure that everything is senseless, then it can’t be quite senseless because you are aware that it’s senseless and your awareness of senselessness almost gives it sense. You know what I mean? And optimistic pessimism.”

...

“The light rain had become a hard rain and I sat there listening to it belt against the roof.

I should never have let those fuckers slip away. And I knew I’d never find my original informant again. I was back at the beginning. The Red Sparrow had vanished from my stupid grasp. Here I was 55 years old and still fumbling in the dark. How long could I stay in the game? Did the inept deserve anything but a kick in the ass? My old man told me, ‘Get into anything where they hand you the money first and then hope to get it back. That’s banking and insurance. Take the real thing and give them a piece of paper for it. Use their money, it will keep coming. Two things drive them: greed and fear. One things drive you: opportunity.’ Seemed like good advice. Only my father died broke.

I poured a new scotch.”

Wantonness, contemplation, and “optimistic pessimism” are traits that defined Henry Chinaski—the main character in Bukowski’s other books (Post Office, Women, Ham on Rye, Factotum)—and the author himself. In Pulp we see a little more of the latter two; but with the author’s death approaching (Bukowski had bone marrow cancer when he finished this book), the inevitable question is: is it futile to fight your destiny?

Goodbye Bukowski, you will not be forgotten. This one is for you.