Hollywood

Likely to be Bukowski's tamest novel, we are granted an insiders eye into the wild whimsical world of Hollywood. We encounter ridiculous situations where spoiled artists have allowed praise to drive their ego to disportionate sizes. As usual the novel follows real events and people that have been masked with pseudonyms, so part of the joy is uncovering the faces and discovering how creative celebrities acted terribly at vain West Coast parties. I guess, Bukowski fans would say this novel lacks his typical fire, grit, desperation and rage but I think it was nice to read a novel that didn't wallow in misery and misfortune. He seems to have reached an age or level of comfort that enabled him to relax, and it's reflected in his writing. Overall, a fun book, something to kick back and relax to whilst nursing a hangover on a Sunday.

فقط از دو پاراگراف اين كتاب خوشم اومد :

١- “احساس مي كني زندگي ات با اين هدر دادن بيهوده ي زمان خمير مي شود . منظورم اين است كه فقط روي صندلي ات مي نشيني و صداي ملت را مي شنوي كه بحث مي كنند كي بايد برنده شود و چرا. واقعاً حال به هم زن است. بعضي وقت ها فكر مي كني در ديوانه خانه هستي. البته يك جور هايي بودي. هر كدام از آن آشغال ها فكر مي كند از آن يكي آشغال بيشتر مي فهمد و همه شان با هم در يك مكان بودند. من هم آنجا بودم ، با آن ها نشسته بودم.”

٢- “فكر كردم خدايا ، پس نويسنده چي؟ نويسنده گوشت و خون و مغز اين موجودات است ( يا جبران نبود تمام اين ها ) . نويسنده است كه قلبشان را به تپيدن وا مي دارد ، در دهانشان حرف مي گذارد ، بهشان زندگي مي بخشد يا مي كشدشان ، هر چيزي كه دلش بخواهد . ولي نويسنده كجاست ؟ كي از نويسنده عكس مي گيرد ؟ كي برايش دست مي زند ؟ ولي همه چيز درست بود: نويسنده همان جايي است كه بايد باشد: گوشه اي تاريك، در حال تماشا.”

This was the second time I read this book. The first time was in my mid-twenties and I loved it. I seemed to remember it as irreverent, funny, and biting. Twenty-seven years later, I still found parts of it to be funny and irreverent, but less biting this time around. In fact, Buk is pretty repetitive in this novel and some of his “bits” are repeated from many of his other books whether it's describing his cigarettes (the “an Indian cigarette called a Sher Bidi. The lepers roll them” bit) or the constant opening of red wine and pouring some red. As I've gotten older, his constant reference to boozing has gotten tiresome and takes away from his observant writer's eye, which I feel was sharper in his earlier novels and short stories. The narrative here is a lot of “and then, and then, and then” with very little reflection. When he does stop and say something like:

“I was a little sad that I wasn't young... I starved so that I could have time to write. That just isn't done much anymore.”

Then I'd wished he done a little more of that reflection. Instead, it feels like a confession that this novel just isn't his best work.

That just isn't done much anymore. That seems true when this novel came out.

If you want grade-A Buk fiction, then go for Ham on Rye or South of No North. Those books are excellent!