I wrote half a blog post that was essentially an ode to Virginia Woolf before I reviewed my previous two entries and noticed an unfortunate trend. In an effort to avoid creating a blog themed “Recommended books written by authors who killed themselves”, I have opted instead to recommend a book written by someone who died against their will.
I recommend the book “Women” by Charles Bukowski.
I just Googled if Bukowski ever tried to commit suicide, fueled by the fear that I’m discovering a sad personal predisposition, and learned that he referred to his alcoholism as a way of slowly killing himself. I have already written a paragraph and a half of this post so I am just going to forge on, accept that I’m repressing some trauma that’s manifesting itself as an affinity for suicidal authors, and finish this recommendation.
“Women” is the semi autobiographical story of a man named Chinaski. Chinaski is an alcoholic and a writer. The book is about his relationships with women. Despite being an unarguably disgusting person, Chinaski manages to beguile a myriad of women. You might be wondering, why would an alcoholic’s beguiling of women interest me? I don’t know. Maybe you’re perverted?
Quote from “Women”:
“‘Buy me a drink,’ I asked her.
She nodded to the barkeep. He came over.
‘Vodka-7 for the gentleman.’
‘Thanks, Babette. My name’s Henry Chinaski, alcoholic writer.’
‘Never heard of you.’
Thank you for reading.