In Charles Bukowski’s Factotum we follow Henry Chinaski across the country from job to job (Chinaski makes an art form of getting fired), city to city, and woman to woman. Simultaneously, I am repulsed by and drawn to Bukowski. I am revolted by his characters, their habits, their alcoholism, and the way they treat each other.
Why he interests me is more complex. There is a definite loveliness in his writing, his word choice, his syntax, his subtlety. But ultimately, the very reasons I am disgusted by him are what make his writing appealing. His characters and the things they do are embarrassingly honest. They are human beings living in this world and he shows us the things they must do to get by, and it isn’t always pretty. And it shouldn’t be. Poverty isn’t pretty, alcoholism isn’t pretty, and in a shocking departure from the norm, he does not try to glamorize any of it:
I went and sat on the edge of the bed and rolled a cigarette. I hadn’t wiped myself very well. When I got up to look for a beer there was a wet brown stain. I went into the bathroom and wiped myself again. Then I sat on the bed with my beer and waited for Jan to awaken (118-9).
And then in the space of a few lines Bukowski can so quickly and quietly create a connection between Chinaski and one of his many co-workers:
“My brother is rich,” said Maurice. “He has disowned me. He doesn’t like my drinking. He doesn’t like my painting.”
“But your brother never met Picasso.”
Maurice stood up and smiled.
“No, he never met Picasso.”
Maurice walked back down the aisle toward the front of the store, cigar smoke curling back over his shoulder. He had kept my book of matches (175).
An empathetic Chinaski actually consoles Maurice, shows him how though he may not have the things his brother has, he does have things his brother doesn’t. The two men may be drunks working menial jobs, but with that comes what enables them to be an artist, a writer. But Bukwoski keeps us rooted in reality by reminding us they are still who we think they are: Maurice steals the matches, a small action that tells us Maurice is that guy who never has a light unless he has just jacked one from someone else.
Bukowski forces the reader to judge his characters; he does, Chinaski does. Consequently, this forces us to think about them and leaves us wondering how different these people really are from us, from the people around us.
There were always men looking for jobs in America. There were always all these usable bodies. And I wanted to be a writer. Almost everybody was a writer. Not everybody thought they could be a dentist or an automobile mechanic but everybody knew they could be a writer. Of those fifty guys in the room, probably fifteen of them thought they were writers. Almost everybody used words and could write them down, i.e., almost everybody could be a writer. But most men, fortunately, aren’t writers, or even cab drivers, and some men – many men – unfortunately aren’t anything (166-7).
