by Charles Bukowski
This is a semi-autobiographical novel about Harry Chinaski, a low-life in Los Angeles who spends most of his time drinking and working at the post office. He doesn't care much about any of the women in his life, and he certainly doesn't care about his job. Chinaski seems to picture himself as the child who tells the emperor that he's wearing no clothes; he is constantly irritated by the stupidity and hypocrisy of those around him, and he either doesn't see the same things in himself, doesn't care, or just enjoys the irony of it. Post Office is interesting and funny, but I was glad that it wasn't longer. People who didn't like On the Road should probably avoid this book.
copyright © 1998 John Regehr