So, I read Charles Bukowskiās āWomenā this week. Heās a writer that Iāve felt I SHOULD read for some time, but (from what Iād heard) felt a need to avoid (or, at least, imbibe my āother-things-to-doā notions). Now, having succumbed to my literary aspirations, Iāve taken the dive. I figured, āHeck, I might actually like his stuff. Besides, all kinds of folks are comparing him to Whitman, Williams, and the like.ā Perhaps my literary aspirations are weak, but I found it coarsely written, with most detail centering around sex. Well, that and booze. Shouldnāt surprise me, I guess. However, after awhile, with nothing else, even sex gets boring (perhaps thatās why I find network TV dull and uninspiring?). This was (possibly) deliberate, to make the character one dimensional, unpleasant, and rather unsympathetic. As the point of view really never changed, things became more and more tedious; we looked through Chinaskiās eyes exclusively. And his view only mildly shifted. It was interesting to ...