Post Office by Charles Bukowski

I had heard about and read about Bukowski, a Beat-Generation poet and novelist from the early '70s known for his gritty realism, but I had not read anything of his until I picked this book up at Half-Price. The cover says that it has sold over a million copies in more than a dozen languages, and that it is "amazing, hilarious and unfalteringly entertaining." So I wasted half a day reading it.

Yes, wasted.

The narrator Henry Chenaski is a low-life alcoholic who spends his life getting drunk, having sex with girlfriends and chance acquaintances, and betting at the race track, all while working at the post office. Finally he resigns from the post office. End of story.

All this is written in an arrogant tone, as if the narrator feels himself to be superior to all the other characters, especially to his fellow workers. Bukowski has stated that the novel is autobiographical, and he seemed to take pride in the tumble-down life that he led. I have known guys like this--he is every drunk or drug addict who ever excused his addiction as an indication that he is too intelligent and sensitive to deal with the angst of living among the clods and drudges.

Alcoholism is not hilarious and entertaining, even to the alcoholic, eventually. And it is not hilarious and entertaining to read about.

I hated this book more than any other I have ever read. (And I have read some really bad ones in my time.) The fact that many have bought it and (I suppose) liked it is very discouraging.