I wanted the whole world or nothing. 

 

Charles Bukowski

 

According to city records, Charles Bukowski was born in Andernach, Germany on August 16, 1920, a month after his parents had gotten married. Despite this, the poet and novelist repeatedly claimed he had been born out of wedlock. 

This was not an enjoyable read.

Sometimes "good" books aren't, but at least they make you think or inspire you or something along those lines.

That wasn't the case here either.

 

It was the really depressing story of a young boy growing up in a unloving, violent and dysfunctional family. 

To become? Well, we don't know. The story ends before there is any conclusion, any step away from all the depressing factors of his life.

 

As it is auto-biographic - at least in part - we know that he will make quite a success out of himself with his stories.

 

This book doesn't even hint at that.

 

It only describes a very sad growing-up - with a lot of bullying, violence, pain, humiliation and so on. And a lot of sexual awakening, dirty thoughts and so on. But they don't bring anything positive to the story either, so there you have it.

 

Overall, very depressing.

On Cats - Charles Bukowski This is my first book from Bukowski. I already added more of his books on my to-read list.

A tender and heartwarming coming of age tale about a German immigrant family coming to America and the humorous tales of growing up in a loving and hard-working family.

Hahaha! Yeah…no. Not even close.

I really did like this one, even though it fizzled out a little toward the end for me. A manly-man, non-stop raunch fest. Bleacher beavers, Grandma back-acne exorcism, doggie baptism and a whole lot of “cunt” going on. (I don’t recall that being a word kids used when I was in school, but I maybe it was just before my time.)

Not a whole lot of plotting either really, but a steady flow of vulgarity and crude happenings. In the words of Bukowski, “Not much cock, but look at those balls!” Or something like that…

Yep, I liked it.

Not my jam.  In fairness to the author, I'm not a fan of poetry in any modern or, for that matter, sophisticated, form.  There are exceptions, and I thought maybe, being a collection On Cats, this would be one of them.  Nope.

 

There were a few - a very few - I liked and would enjoy reading again, but most of them were too focused on tragedy, and those I frankly skipped without reading.