By Charles Bukowski
One among Charles Bukowski's most sensible, this beer-soaked, deliciously degenerate novel follows the wanderings of aspiring author Henry Chinaski throughout global battle II-era the US. Deferred from army provider, Chinaski travels from urban to urban, relocating listlessly from one bizarre activity to a different, constantly wanting funds yet by no means badly adequate to maintain a role. His daily lifestyles spirals into an never-ending litany of pathetic whores, sordid rooms, dreary embraces, and drunken brawls, as he makes his sour, impressive method from one drink to the subsequent.
Charles Bukowski's posthumous legend maintains to develop. Factotum is a masterfully brilliant evocation of slow-paced, low-life urbanity and alcoholism, and a very good advent to the fictitious international of Charles Bukowski.
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Gertrude turned her head and stared into the crowd of people. Then she looked at me. ” “That soldier over there. He’s sitting alone. He sits so straight. ” “Is it the soldier? ” I stood up at the table, left a tip and walked toward the door. I heard Gertrude behind me. I walked down the street in the snow. Soon she was walking at my side. “You didn’t even get a taxi. ” I didn’t answer. We walked the four or five blocks to the rooming house. I went up the steps with her beside me. Then I walked down to my room, opened the door, closed it, got out of my clothes and went to bed.
Get up,” I told my father. ” She scratched my face again. I turned to look at her. She got the other side of my face. Blood was running down my neck, was soaking my shirt, pants, shoes, the rug. She lowered her hands and stared at me. ” She didn’t answer. I walked back to the bedroom thinking, I better find myself a job. 20 / CHARLES BUKOWSKI 12 I stayed in my room until after they left the next morning. Then I took the newspaper and turned to the Help Wanted section. My face hurt; I was still sick.
I worked for several weeks. I came in drunk each night. It didn’t matter; I had the job nobody wanted. After an hour at the oven I was sober. My hands were blistered and burned. Each day I sat aching in my room pricking my blisters with pins I first sterilized with matches. One night I was drunker than usual. I refused to punch in. “This is it,” I told them. The Elf was in trauma. ” I got his head in the crook of my arm, squeezed; his ears turned pink. “Little bastard,” I said. Then I let him go.