Ham on Rye is a 1982 semi-autobiographical novel by American author and poet Charles Bukowski. Written in the first person, the novel follows Henry Chinaski, Bukowski's thinly veiled alter ego, during his early years. Written in Bukowski's characteristically straightforward prose, the novel tells of his coming-of-age in Los Angeles during the Great Depression.
I enjoyed the book. Charles Bukowski's prose is never pretentious and he writes without any dishonest attempts to make it sound deep or sophisticated. The perspective with which the main character (based on Bukowski's own experiences) looks at the world, the urban poor he depicts are vivid and even if you do not agree with the perspective you come to understand it. This was my first Bukowski novel and it makes me want to read more from him.
This is like reading Faulkner, without all of the fuss, with more fun, and perhaps without the same levels of philosophy and psychology. It's arty without being hoity-toity about it all. A simple language is used, and bombs go off without much fanfare. It's astounding in the way that it mixes observations with inner thoughts from the main character.
From the very first paragraph:
The first thing I remember is being under something. It was a table, I saw a table leg, I saw the legs of the people, and a portion of the tablecloth hanging down. It was dark under there, I liked being under there. It must have been in Germany. I must have been between one and two years old. It was 1922. I felt good under the table. Nobody seemed to know that I was there. There was sunlight upon the rug and on the legs …
This is like reading Faulkner, without all of the fuss, with more fun, and perhaps without the same levels of philosophy and psychology. It's arty without being hoity-toity about it all. A simple language is used, and bombs go off without much fanfare. It's astounding in the way that it mixes observations with inner thoughts from the main character.
From the very first paragraph:
The first thing I remember is being under something. It was a table, I saw a table leg, I saw the legs of the people, and a portion of the tablecloth hanging down. It was dark under there, I liked being under there. It must have been in Germany. I must have been between one and two years old. It was 1922. I felt good under the table. Nobody seemed to know that I was there. There was sunlight upon the rug and on the legs of the people. I liked the sunlight. The legs of the people were not interesting, not like the tablecloth which hung down, not like the table leg, not like the sunlight.
The book is strewn with subtle and horrendously beautiful writings about the patriarchal, capitalistic stuff that happen:
There were continual fights. The teachers didn’t seem to know anything about them. And there was always trouble when it rained. Any boy who brought an umbrella to school or wore a raincoat was singled out. Most of our parents were too poor to buy us such things. And when they did, we hid them in the bushes. Anybody seen carrying an umbrella or wearing a raincoat was considered a sissy. They were beaten after school. David’s mother had him carry an umbrella whenever it was the least bit cloudy.
The above shows how this book, published in 1982, hasn't really changed much over most of Western "society" when considering nowaday literature like Édouard Louis‘s “The End of Eddy“, which was published in 2014.
I love the way that things are written about, in a quite stoic and existentialistic fashion:
He walked over and slapped me on the ear, knocking me to the floor. The woman got up and ran out of the house and my father went after her. The woman leaped into my father’s car, started it and drove off down the street. It happened very quickly. My father ran down the street after her and the car. “EDNA! EDNA, COME BACK!”
My father actually caught up with the car, reached into the front seat and grabbed Edna’s purse. Then the car speeded up and my father was left with the purse. “I knew something was going on,” my mother told me. “So I hid in the car trunk and I caught them together. Your father drove me back here with that horrible woman. Now she’s got his car.” My father walked back with Edna’s purse. “Everybody into the house!”
We went inside and my father locked me in the bedroom and my mother and father began arguing. It was loud and very ugly. Then my father began beating my mother. She screamed and he kept beating her. I climbed out a window and tried to get in the front door. It was locked. I tried the rear door, the windows. Everything was locked. I stood in the backyard and listened to the screaming and the beating. Then the beating and the screaming stopped and all I could hear was my mother sobbing. She sobbed a long time. It gradually grew less and less and then she stopped.
There are some funny, and a lot of tragic sides to all of this. While reading the book, I often wondered whether the character caused his problems, or was just affected by them, unable to avoid it all; naturally, it all depends on from where you're standing. The book reminded me a lot of Camus's "The Stranger", but that may be due to the existentialistic nature of that book, which I love.
All in all, this book makes me want to read more of Bukowski's books. This book will linger in the back of my head for quite some time, I think.
There's a scene where the 5th grade alter Bukowski ego makes up a story of him seeing President Hoover come to town. The teacher compliments him on it even after he admits to making up. So you can't tell how much of this is real and what's made up. Bukowski's prose is clear and objective. His alter ego is a Hemingway fan. But Hemingway's men do heroic things like drive ambulances in wars or catch huge fish. Bukowski's guy is the bottom of the bottom in down out depression LA.
Here's a good passage: Walking home I had the medal in my pocket. Who was old Sussex? Just some guy who had to shit like the rest of us. Everybody had to conform, find a mold to fit into. Doctor, lawyer, soldier – it didn’t mater what it was. Once in the mold you had to push forward. Sussex was …
There's a scene where the 5th grade alter Bukowski ego makes up a story of him seeing President Hoover come to town. The teacher compliments him on it even after he admits to making up. So you can't tell how much of this is real and what's made up. Bukowski's prose is clear and objective. His alter ego is a Hemingway fan. But Hemingway's men do heroic things like drive ambulances in wars or catch huge fish. Bukowski's guy is the bottom of the bottom in down out depression LA.
Here's a good passage: Walking home I had the medal in my pocket. Who was old Sussex? Just some guy who had to shit like the rest of us. Everybody had to conform, find a mold to fit into. Doctor, lawyer, soldier – it didn’t mater what it was. Once in the mold you had to push forward. Sussex was as helpless as the next man. Either you managed to do something or you starved in the streets. I was alone, walking. On my side of the street just before reaching the first boulevard on the long walk home..... I turned away from the window and walked along some more. Just before reaching the boulevard I stepped into the street and saw an enormous storm drain almost at my feet. It was like a great black mouth leading down to the bowels of the earth. I reached into my pocket and too the medal and tossed it toward the black opening. It went right in. It disappeared into the darkness.
This has to be some of Bukowski's best writing. It is pretty much about his childhood, from his first memories to school life and then finally the start of his career as a bum/writer. As he writes about each stage of his life the writing style changes slightly, it gets more grown up as he himself gets more grown up.
As you would expect from his books the writing is coarse, it is vulgar and extremely honest, most people would be embarrassed to tell some of the details he shares with you. He captures the thoughts of a teenage boy perfectly, horny, insecure and obsessed with the female body.
If you wanna know just why Bukowski was like he was then this will inform you as well as any of the biographies written about him. Another Bukowski book I love and can't find a fault with.
