Pulp by Charles Bukowski (reviewed by Alex Thornber)

I didn’t start reading seriously until my late teens. Back then I had no idea where to start so I jumped around taking cues from wherever I found them. A friend gave me a copy of On The Road. In that book Kerouac mentioned Hemingway, so I read Hemingway. Hemingway knew F. Scot Fitzgerald so I read him. And so it went. I found Bukowski through my favorite rock band Modest Mouse; a slightly strange way of discovering such a famous writer, but never mind. After hearing their song ‘Bukowski’ with the lyric “yeah I know he’s a pretty good read/but God who’d wanna be such an asshole?”* I was intrigued. I asked my friend if he’d ever read any and a couple of days later he handed me a copy of Post Office. Since then I have read two more of his novels and three of his short story collections.

I’m addicted to him, but also cautious of my addiction. I try to keep it under control. I only allow myself one Bukowski novel a year. The reasons for this rationing are threefold:

1. He only has a small number of novels; I’m savoring them.
2. His prose is so compelling that you could blow through all his works in a matter of weeks if you allowed yourself to.
3. My mental state simply can’t take any more than one a year.

This final one is purely down to his characters; they are often drunk, aggressive, nihilistic and ultimately self-destructive.  Spending too much time around them inevitably leaves me feeling self-destructive and reaching for a bottle of whisky. Yet, beyond their nihilism, his characters appear sensitive, they dwell on the meaning of life and death, often with more clarity than some philosophers, and the ridiculousness of simply existing. It is the complexities and depth of mostly unlikable characters that keeps me coming back.

Pulp is Bukowski’s final novel, a loving pastiche of old hard-boiled crime novels. It is a form I adore anyway, especially the work of Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett, and Bukowski was destined to re-invent it. His sparse prose and witty characters slide into the world of the LA detective seamlessly, while updating the genre at the same time. As well as the usual bar room drunks, wronged husbands and shady loan sharks, there are beautiful teleporting aliens and an attractive, barely clothed grim reaper named Lady Death.  All of this comes together to make Pulp far more than just a detective novel.

Detective Nicky Belane manages to take on cases he has no idea how to solve. He often messes them up, bursting into rooms to confront criminals only to find they are doing nothing wrong and chasing after someone or something that may or may not exist. There is a brilliant scene where he is hired by a man to find proof of his wife cheating. He follows her, breaks into her house with a camcorder to record her infidelities and bursts in on the wife having sex with her own husband.

This is an average case for Belane it seems, he bumbles along half drunk and follows the loosest of leads while not really comprehending what he is doing or why. The most interesting element of this novel though is the case for a woman called Lady Death; a beautiful woman dressed to distract who is looking for an eighteenth century French writer who had somehow evaded her.

The looming nature of death is prevalent throughout this work. It is perhaps not surprising that Bukowski finished the novel just before his death. There is a subtle tone of urgency in this novel that powers you through its pages, almost as if he had this great tale he had to get out before he died and it was lost.

Philosophical musings have often played a part in Bukowski’s stories, not always as successfully as in Pulp where he provides perhaps the greatest glimpse inside his head. In parts of this novel I did get the feeling I was switching back and forth between a crime novel and a philosophy pamphlet; like someone had photocopied pages from one and stuck them in the other.  But it feels natural. Bukowski’s voice is flawless whether he is describing a vicious attack on a neighbor who has pissed Belane off or highlighting the senselessness of everything.

‘I mean, say that you figure that everything is senseless, then it can’t be quite senseless because you are aware that it’s senseless and your awareness of senselessness almost gives it sense. You know what I mean?’

Bukowski phrases everything in such a way that is never feels like being condescended to by an elder or ranted at by a bar room drunk.

I don’t think anyone else writes like Bukowski. The combination of brutish characters with thoughtful minds is difficult to pull off and Bukowski has truly triumphed in Pulp.  It is magnificent novel; fast paced, thought provoking and thoroughly enjoyable.  Just try not to get sucked into the depressive elements and loose yourself forever.

*Bukowski by Modest Mouse.  Appears on the album Good News for People Who Love Bad News.