Charles Bukowski – Pulp – Comment

Pulp is Bukowski's final novel, published after his death in 1994. Certainly, a pastiche on the American detective story, the novel truly echoes the original pulp genre of the 30s, 40s, and 50s. One can hear the cynical voice of Raymond Chandler and the detailed observations of Dashiell Hammett. Pulp, then, has Bukowski’s brand of lowlife machismo, alcohol drenched escapism and his unique philosophical perspective on society writ large.  

One of the great American crime novelists, Michael Connelly, has written a four-page introduction to this novel. He writes: 

In his life as a writer Charles Bukowski never took the pose of the great man of letters. He was a dirty realist. I think he liked to look at the work as craft, not art. A craft you work, you hone. It takes time and dedication...he was a grinder. He was ham on rye, a pound-it-out guy who used words like a carpenter uses nails. 

Bokowski’s character persona of Henry Chinaski comes realized in Nick Belane, private detective, lover of beautiful woman, and degenerate gambler, and the observational eye of a streetwise sociologist.   

The book begins in a Chandler-isk tone with an edge:  

I was sitting in my office, my lease had expired and McKelvy was starting eviction proceedings. It was a hellish hot day, and the air conditioner was broken. A fly crawled across the top of my desk. I reached out with the open palm of my hand and sent him out of the game. (emphasis mine).  

Belane is hired by a slew of dubious clients, starting with Lady Death who needs to find the alleged dead French writer, Celine. Along with a case to catch a cheating wife, Belane is hired to expose an alien inhabiting the bodies of humans and, the most intriguing, seeking out and finding the illusive Red Sparrow. Belane and the reader are never privy as to what the Red Sparrow is until the end of the novel. Personally, I found the end of the story quite unexpected and moving.  

Having been a fan of this genre back in the day, I was curious to see how Bukowski pulled it off. He pulls it off, not only with alley-like humor, and originality, but with a universal, deep understanding of the human condition – I reached out with the open palm of my hand and sent him out of the game.  

Suggested reading for an overcast, rainy Sunday afternoon.