Charles Bukowski - Ham on Rye

Having finished all the reading for my dissertation, I finally have a chance to get on with all the reading I've been meaning to do for months, starting with Charles Bukowski's Ham on Rye (1982) which, as I said back in March, I have been meaning to read for a very long time.

Ham on Rye is the semi-autobiographical tale of Bukowski's alter-ego Hank Chinaski, charting his first memories until his early twenties. While not as shocking as some of Bukowski's earlier work (although increasingly graphic as Hank grows up), Ham on Rye instantly grips you with short, blunt sentences and a refusal to censure real life. It is a novel full of pain and weariness, yet studded with Bukowski's trademark dry wit. Growing up in the height of the Depression, Chinaski is repeatedly urged by his parents to make a better life for himself, but he cannot get passed the futility of it all. He is plagued by terrible acne and lacking the money, sporting ability or social skills to make friends with anyone but other outsiders, who he would prefer to avoid. As he grows up, Hank finds solace in only two things: alcohol and literature.

I wanted to share a couple of Chinaski's thoughts which stood out for me. The first perfectly encapsulates the power of reading:

"Words weren't dull, words were anything that can 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" (165).

The second is a fascinating insight into Bukowski's own conception of literature. With his usual cynicism, he notes that literature has no real power to change anything, but has its own value. 

D.H. Lawrence, G.B. Shaw, Huxley... "It was good to read them all though. It made you realize that thoughts and words could be fascinating, if finally useless" (184).

If Hank Chinaski were to read Bukowski, I'm sure he would add him to this list. In the end, Ham on Rye is just the account of a melancholy, uninspired existence, but Bukowski's stark, forceful style makes it a fascinating read.

Barflies @ The Vuclan Hotel

"You are still not Charles Bukowski and I am not Diane Cluck" - Emmy The Great, 24

Until tonight, all I knew of Charles Bukowski was that he is one of the most acclaimed cult writers ever and that lots of aspiring poets and songwriters try to emulate him, filling their verses with alcohol, women and pain. I have often told myself to read his work (Ham On Rye has been sitting on my desk untouched for some weeks now). Now, with Barflies, the Grid Iron Theatre Company (with a little help from Sherman Cymru) has brought Bukowski to me, in a very unsettling encounter in a small Cardiff pub.

Barflies, directed and adapted by Ben Harrison, brings together three short stories from Bukowski's The Most Beautiful Woman in Town, as well as several poems and short extracts from other works. Bukowski's alter-ego Henry Chinaski, wallowing in alcohol and regret, recounts the women in his life and their effect on his work from his bar stool, while we crowd around him on stools of our own.

It is definitely not for the faint-hearted. Copious quantities of booze and bodily fluids are sprayed, sex is simulated inches from our faces. In a particularly difficult to watch moment, Henry searches through his viscera, dribbling saliva, until he pulls out his own liver. Gut-wrenching is a word often applied to theatre, but rarely is it a physical action seen on stage.

So I can't say that I enjoyed Barflies, but I certainly didn't dislike it either. Like the week when I read Blue of Noon and Los Alegres Desahuciados, I could feel the will to live ebbing away as I passed more and more time with these desperate, booze-soaked, debauched characters, yet I remained captivated by them. The quality of Bukowski's writing shines through the mire, both his gift for story-telling and his mastery of words, his enthralling combinations of sounds.

I was also impressed by the unique staging (even though the barstools got quite uncomfortable) and the cast. Keith Fleming does a stellar job bringing Henry to life. He plays drunk without falling into caricature and has enough charisma to keep the audience engrossed in an often difficult to watch character. As all of Henry's women - Cass, Vicky, Margy, Vivienne and Sarah - Charlene Boyd excels at creating distinct characters. She is particularly touching as the suicidal Cass, Henry's one true love, swinging from psychosis to very subtle emotion. Rounding off the cast, David Paul Jones' smooth, dark voice and piano playing heightens the claustrophobic feel of the piece.

"Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead" 

Bukowski's most famous quote, when finally uttered by Henry, is an awkward moment. The distinctly middle-class audience, some of whom squirm at even seeing the drunken debauchery, let alone participating, are the kind of people that Henry/Charles would abhor and that knowledge visibly causes discomfort. I think Bukowski would be pleased.