I was a writer. I was a dirty old man. Human relationships didn't work anyhow. Only the first two weeks had any zing, then the participants lost their interest. Masks dropped away and real people began to appear: cranks, imbeciles, the demented, the vengeful, sadists, killers. Modern society had created its own kind and they feasted on each other. It was a duel to the death--in a cesspool. The most one could hope for in a human relationship, I decided, was two and one-half years.منطق بعضی از کتاب‌ها طوری هست که نوشتن ریویو برای اون‌ها کار مسخره‌ای میشه. اوکی. بذارید این کار مسخره رو بکنیم ببینیم چی از آب درمیاد... زنان داستانی هست که اگه از زبون سوم شخص رو کاغذ ریخته میشد هیچ دلیلی برات نمی‌موند که از شخصیت طرف حالت به هم نخوره. اما نویسنده خیلی رندونه و زیرجلکی خودش رو می‌بنده به ناف شخصیت اصلی رمان تا با روایت شخص اولش باعث بشه صداقتش تو رو بگیره و دیگه هی مجبور نباشی در مورد شخصیتش قضاوت کنی. رمان قصه‌ی یه نویسنده‌ست که به قول خودش صرفا داره «می‌کوبه رو شاسی‌های ماشین تحریر». نویسنده‌ای که به «زن» علاقه داره و در عین حال کاملا بی‌تفاوته بهشون. اگه بخوای داستان رمان رو توی یه خط، تعریف کنی قصه‌ی نویسنده‌ای هست که شرح هم‌خوابگی‌هاش رو با ده‌ها زن ریز و درشت تعریف میکنه. زن‌هایی که «شاید» دل‌شون می‌خواسته بعدها توی یکی از رمان‌ها یا شعرهای نویسنده جاودانه بشن. شرح هم‌خوابگی‌ها اروتی.ک نیست، پور.ن محض هست و اتفاقا همین تکنیک کمک میکنه به درک فضای ذهنی شخصیت داستان. برای شخصیت داستان این‌که با کی می‌خوابه مهم نیست، بیشتر چی بودنش مطرحه. زنها عین عروسک‌های خیمه شب‌بازی وارد داستان میشن، زمین زده میشن و خارج میشن. جوری که بعد از مدتی سرگیجه می‌گیری که الان با کی داره می‌خوابه. اما این سرگیجه شاید برای ما ایرانی‌ها بیشتر هم باشه؛ چون اون‌قدرها با ویژگی‌های خاص شهرهای امریکا آشنا نیستیم که مثلا یه دختر پر شر و شور تگزاسی با یه دختر سمج روستایی یوتایی یا با یه دختر ضدحال شیکاگویی تفاوتی داشته باشه...I knew plenty of women. Why always more women? What was I trying to do? New affairs were exciting but they were also hard work. The first kiss, the first fuck had some drama. People were interesting at first. Then later, slowly but surely, all the flaws and madness would manifest themselves. I would become less and less to them; they would mean less and less to me.شخصیت اصلی رمان به رابطه‌ها اعتقادی نداره. به این‌که میشه با کسی بود و عمری باهاش سر کرد. البته این وسط خودش رو تافته‌ی جدا بافته نمی‌دونه و میگه خودش هم یه آشغالیه بین آشغال‌های دیگه. اما آشغالی که با آشغال بودن خودش کنار اومده و سعی نمی‌کنه رنگ و لعاب بهش بده. شاید برای همین هم هست که «هرکسی» می‌تونه تیکه‌هایی از خودش رو توی شخصیت اصلی رمان ببینه...رمان قرار نیست لذت‌بخش باشه. قهرمانی توش نیست. صحنه‌های جنسیش (که هوش‌مندانه عریان هستن) قابلیت خیال‌انگیزی ندارن. اتفاقی توی رمان نمی‌افته. هیچ دلیلی برای خوندن این کتاب وجود نداره. با نخوندنش هم چیزی از دست نمی‌دید. اگه با این مسایل کنار اومدید و هنوز هم می‌خواید این کتاب رو بخونید پس تو خوندنش معطل نکنید. چون مخاطب کتاب خود شمایید
It was love at first letter with Bukowski. This was months ago. I read the letter he wrote in ’86, (posted at “Letters of Note” in 2012,) and I just knew. I had a thing for that letter, and wanted to devour the words of the man who wrote it.I gulped down “Women” quickly because that was the type of book it was. Reading Bukowski requires the willingness to loosen up. It is not easy to read this stuff through an ideological, feminist, or moral lens. This man does not bother to brush up his character or polish his words. Whether we like it or not, we are forced to watch Chinaski throw up and throw his seeds in the fleshes of passing women. Chinaski is self-described as a “dirty old man”, “selfish, with deep pleasure”. He is a raging alcoholic, and, really, he is simply not bothered. And so it goes. The more I read, the more Bukowski's appeal started to fade before my eyes. This possibly correlates with his own life-experience and through his sharing of this reality: “Human relationships didn't work anyhow. Only the first two weeks had any zing, then the participants lost their interest. Masks dropped away and real people began to appear: cranks, imbeciles, the demented, the vengeful, sadists, killers. Modern society had created its own kind and they feasted on each other. It was a duel to the death--in a cesspool.” The buried sense of uneasiness on how easy it is to break up, let go and be with someone else adds to the depth of this book, and the book does have depth. Perhaps the easiest way to describe it would be through referencing Milan Kundera’s book title: “The Unbearable Lightness of Being”. While reading Bukowski's “Women”, I started to wonder about the meaning-of-it-all, but had to quickly stop myself from this questioning, and keep on reading. It means nothing. In the words of a friend of mine, "life means nothing and everything, but mostly nothing.” Bukowski emphasizes on the nothingness. He is ‘not wholesome in the sense of wholesome is as wholesome does’: “I liked to drink, I was lazy, I didn’t have a god, politics, ideas, ideals. I was settled into nothingness; a kind of non-being, and I accepted it. It didn’t make for an interesting person. I didn’t want to be interesting, it was too hard. What I really wanted was only a soft, hazy space to live in, and to be left alone. On the other hand, when I got drunk I screamed, went crazy, got all out of hand. One kind of behavior didn’t fit the other. I didn’t care.”For the most part, this book was not rich in context. I wanted to love it, but dare I say: I was underwhelmed. I had this recurring notion that Bukowski was just trying so hard to look as though he was not trying so hard. It seems as though he wanted to give the impression that he couldn't care less about other writers, films, TV, culture, none of it really, and that he wasn't bothered by what people thought about his writing. On the other hand, there are all these self-compliments his characters chip in that disprove his indifference. The constant referrals he makes about himself being “one of the best writers”, and that he has “raw writing”, “humor”, impeccable ease in jumping from one girl to another and “fucking all these women” all start to become less and less amusing. This book, albeit playful, could be helpful for a case-study on polygamy. It is also acute in conveying the harsh economic realities that the Americans of that generation had been going through. Additionally, it could assist women of all generations to understand the true composition of jerks, assholes and dirty old men, and know when to run for their lives if they are in a relationship with one. Was I disappointed with this book? Unfortunately, yes. Would I read more Bukowski? The man is shameless and unbothered by it, but he sticks to his guns and has his own style. Give me another book by him, right now, and yes, yes I will.
Do You like book Women (2014)?
اولین تجربه پر از شوق و ذوق بوکوفسکی خوانیم چندان آش دهن سوزی از آب در نیومد. جملات ساده و کوتاه و فاقد هرگونه استعاره ادبی و لغات نه چندان سنگین و پیچیده یه جور بی تفاوتی نویسنده رو نسبت به محبوب شدن اثر نزد خواننده به چشم میاره که اتفاقن در کمال تعجب دلنشین هم بود. بوکوفسکی با کلمات و جملات بازی نمی کنهانگار مدام داشت داد می زد: من همینیم که هستم! همین قدر آشغال تو زندگی ،همین قدر فاسد تو اخلاق و همین قدر تنبل تو نوشتن! میخوای بخواه نمیخوای هم به سلامتمن هم تا شصت درصد داستان تحملش کردم ولی صفحه به صفحه جلو رفتم و هیچ اتفاق جدیدی نیفتاد...چرخه ی آشنایی، همخوابگی، الکل، خیانت ....و زنها امدند و رفتند و من حسابشون از دستم در رفت واین آمد و رفت ها این قدر سریع و پشت هم تکرار شد که اگه تفاوتی هم بینشون بود کم کم از بین رفت و فقط یک چیز باقی موند: جنسیت! و همه المان ها مهیا بود تا نشون بده که چه قدر نکبت داره از سر و کول این زندگی بالا میره. طنز ملایم نویسنده دلچسبه و قسمت هایی که با خودش راجع به زنان زندگیش و این سبک زندگیش فکر میکنه هم دوست داشتنیه ولی به نسبت کل داستان همین دو ستاره کافیه براش.در واقع اگه همین رو هم نداشت میشد داستان زرد به حساب اوردشحقیقت اینه که داستان ابتدا خوب همراهم کرد و سریع پیش رفت ولی تکرار و تکرار و این تکرار لعنتی من رو از خودش دفع کرد.اواخر دیگه نمی خوندم فقط ورق میزدم چون بر اساس استدلال استقرایی می دونستم قراره چه اتفاقی بیفته!!! نمیگم تا اینجایی که خوندم بد بود. کتاب رو رها کردم صرفن به این دلیل که حس کردم باقی کتاب هم همین آشه و همین کاسه و اتفاق جدیدی قرار نیست رخ بده. اگه رخ بده هم که به هر حال من از دست دادمشپ.ن اول: این سبک زندگی چه جذابیتی می تونه واسه خواننده داشته باشه حتی اگه زندگی نویسنده ای معروف باشه؟!؟ واقعن بعضی جاها دلم میخواست بهش بگمHey man! Give it a rest! :-|پ.ن دوم: باعث تاسف بنده است که برای شخصیت های این داستان ،شخصیت های حقیقی سراغ دارم
—FeReSHte
This book was about 85% done and then... I just put it down. It was beginning to seem like a waste of time and energy. So many women, so much booze, and one stinking degenerate to tell me about it all. But then I came across an LA Times Book Review of "Pleasure of the Damn: Poems, 1951-1993" (which was going to released the following week). The reviewer said some really harsh things about Bukowski and his place in the literary pantheon in LA. After that, I was inspired to finish reading this book. I wanted to assess for myself Bukowski's strengths and weaknesses as a writer.And... I found myself loving the book, almost in spite of myself. Yes he's an alcoholic and complete filth. But it doesn't, in any way, come between him and his art. I felt like I always understood where he was coming from even if I didn't agree with it. That's quiet an accomplishment! There are some writers I love and I love their characters completely but it's not always clear what's going on in that world. Not so with Bukowski. I really appreciated that. Another word about the writing style: very "male." And lastly, Bukowski gives a sense of place. (I notice that with Angelino writers and American writers in general more so that their European or English counterparts.) There is a definite time and setting where it all happen. LA in the 70's, Venice Beach. I love that!
—Linda
Repulsive.There it is, my one word review of Women.As I'm reading the book, hating it more and more, I'm wondering how I can ever review it. I'm not too fond of reviewing books anyway, but I didn't know how I could even share my thoughts on it. I decided I'd just do an alphabetical 26-word review, starting with "atrocious" and ending with "zany" with each word a representation of what I hated about the book.Way too much work.So why didn't I like Women? I was turned off by what I perceived as Bukowski's misogyny and his lack of humanity. I didn't enjoy that the story read like a broken record, I was unhappy with the bleakness of love, I was bored listening to a loudmouthed drunk telling me exaggerated stories of his past and his love life.So why do I rate a book I disliked so highly? Because when I finished I realized that no one, at least no one I know, writes with this much truth and this much passion and this much honesty. No one I know has the guts to rip himself open and throw himself on the table for pedantic lubbers like me to criticize.And I also realized that Charles Bukowski is the only writer I've ever read who can make me laugh out loud. Sometimes not for the right reason.Women is raw and offensive and insulting and repulsive but it's thoroughly honest, disturbingly brutal and undeniably real.
—Michael
