Bukowski is an author who handles pain, disappointment, and other dark emotions easily.
So, it is with a lot of expectation that one picks up a novel (novella?) by this author.
Writing a review whose headline is "Damp Squib" feels bad.
One is not sorry for the time one lost reading the book cover to cover (though the last pages before the final cover were harder to get through than the ones closer to the front cover.)
The book is, to put it simply, inane. It has neither a story nor much telling. In brief, it can be summed up as: I drank. I fucked someone. I made some money. I drank some more. And oh, the world is full of idiots. I am not an idiot.
Its a short book. I suspect that is because even the author realised there is only so much "I drank. I earned. I fucked." that you can put in a book.
I'd call it pulp fiction, but pulp fiction would feel insulted, and i have no intention of hurting the feelings of a genre that is, at the very least, entertaining - which is more than one can say about this book.
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