There is something raw, elemental and hypnotic about Charles Bukowski’s “Post Office”. And even though it probably fails some of the ‘measures’ for great literature, in doing so maybe it also challenges what we might consider ‘great’.
Perhaps we are seduced by the book’s flaws: not only the flaws in craft or composition or layout etc. but also in the deep-seated flaws of the characters Bukowski portrays. They are never anything other than ‘real’ – and for page after page, we can’t help but think “there but for the grace of God go I”…
I want to read more Bukowski but sense it might be best – in order not to dilute their power – to ration myself rather than binge… But I know his novels will always be there for when I need something ‘earthy’.
Ian Gouge - Writer 