It’s a Free Country

Charles Bukowski wrote one final novel, Pulp, in nineteen-ninety-something, then died.

Last week, or maybe last month, I read it. Nobody made me read it. Nobody tried to stop me from reading it. I live in the USA, not in Canada or Iran.

You want to read it? Be my guest. You want to pan fry it and eat it with asparagus? Have at it.

Pulp, a pastiche of detective fiction, is the least gross obscene of all Bukowski’s novels. Or maybe Hollywood is. Tough call.

Did it make me laugh? Well, yeah, sure; Bukowski was a funny guy before he died. Now his books are funny. But what difference does it make to you whether I laughed at Pulp or not? You don’t know me. For all you know I laugh at damage to squirrels. Maybe you laugh at damage to squirrels. I don’t care one way or the other.

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