Early in his career, the novelist William Kennedy was a journalist whose writing included book reviews. In an essay collected in Riding The Yellow Trolley Car he describes how he hated writing bad reviews – probably because, as a fledgling author himself, he knew how hard the discipline is.
I’ve never read anything by Charles Bukowski before, and maybe this novel isn’t the best way to ease into the work of someone I’d always thought of as a poet. I understand that he is highly regarded by many people; that he is viewed as a sort of poet-laureate of the Outsider. Maybe that’s why my expectations, in terms of literary merit, were so high.
There just isn’t much redeeming value to Ham On Rye, an autobiographical coming-of-age story. Bukowski had a crappy childhood. I get that. He grew up poor during the Great Depression, with an abusive father and almost no nurturing or encouragement. That much comes across. The novel’s big flaw is that its main character Henry Chinaski (Bukowski’s alter-ego) is nearly devoid of introspection, and is almost entirely unsympathetic.
In Chapter 22 (there are 58 chapters in all, many of them quite short, in this ordinary-length book) he describes his first encounter with alcohol. He's around twelve years old when a friend shows him his dad’s stash of homemade wine, and goads him into trying some. After a few glugs, Henry says, “I like this stuff.”
It was magic. Why hadn’t someone told me? With this, life was great, a man was perfect, nothing could touch him.
This may be Ham On Rye’s most worthy detail, even without accompanying exploration: Bukowski’s immediate reaction to, and affection for, alcohol. By now science may have answered the question of why some people are so drawn to alcohol, while others can take it or leave it. Bukowski’s recollection is a kind of case study, presented with elegant simplicity.
The novel ends in Chinaski’s young adulthood. On one hand, he seems to want to better himself – his education and station in life. On the other, he is critical of aiming too high, and happily devoted to self-destructive behavior. His greatest passion seems to be drinking. It may have been a choice, or it may have been surrendering to addiction. To me, it seems like a waste. Illustrating this may be Ham On Rye’s greatest value.
