In Defense of Bukowski

On this Father’s day I thought I would discuss what reminds me most of my father, disagreements. I love Charles Bukowski. My father hates him. We have reoccurring debates about Bukowski’s relevance as a writer, his style or lack of style as my father puts it, and whether he is under or overrated. You see, my dad prefers the finer things in life; Fancy swordfish atop a crostini and not ham on rye. He thinks Bukowski is a womanizing jerk. I assure my father that Bukowski, in part, can be a misogynistic asshole. But I don’t want to date him; I just want to read him. Bukowski is unpolished, terse, and self-aggrandizing, but he is also powerful, humorous, and vulnerable. He has a cult following of disillusioned misanthropes for a reason. He speaks for those trapped within the confines of an artificial soul-sucking capitalist society. He has become the hero, partly because he has written himself into the part, and hence has a throng of imitators that are searching for their own heroic bravado. According to my dad the exact opposite is true. Bukowski relies on being unnecessarily gross. He has followers that are simply degenerates that want an excuse to hate the world that has given them so much opportunity. His writing is bleak and uninspiring.

While I agree that Bukowski is shockingly provocative, I don’t think this aspect of his writing is his only redeeming quality. There are those that outright dismiss Bukowski and then there are those that immaturely cling to the fact that his poems use vulgar words such as “cock” and “cunt.” Primarily, his imitators fail to identify the larger themes within Bukowski’s writing which perpetuates a great misunderstanding of the validity of him as an artist. Take for instance the poem, “The Shower.” Sure, it is sexually explicit, but if you closely examine the last thirteen lines of the poem you see that there is so much more to his writing than just being a crude pervert. He explores loss, longing, and a desire to escape the immanent doom of the ticking clock through love and human interaction. It is hardly easy to just dismiss his writing as hateful misanthropic dribble when you fully examine the breadth of his work. Although, I must admit I do like watching people squirm with discomfort as they read his poems. Death, fear, sex, can all make us gun shy from time to time. I enjoy confronting these themes. The anxiety makes me feel as though something honest is being explored.  My point is, don’t merely write Bukowski off as a one-dimensional perverse goon; Dig deeper.

That being said, I won’t bring up Bukowski tonight when I take my father out to a fancy over-priced dinner that I am sure will only come close to pleasing his highly critical taste. Instead I will tell him that I love him for being nothing like Bukowski. I will tell him that I love him for allowing me to be so disagreeable, and for engaging in that volatile dialogue that most fathers and daughters awkwardly avoid. I may even order swordfish on a crostini and save the ham and rye for another day.