Hollywood

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!