Book Review: Pulp was Charles Bukowski's final novel, published the year he died, and unlike his other novels, it contains a semblance of a plot, isn't virtually autobiographical, and the main character isn't named Henry Chinaski (there were also a surprising number of typos in the book). The detective's name is Nicky Belane. Fortunately, that doesn't sound too much like Mickey Spillane or I'd think Pulp was just a big joke. There are some funny lines in here, a little hard-boiled detective spiel occasionally, but not enough. This is not Charles Bukowski at his best. He retreads a few of his old tropes: Belane drinks too much, goes to the track, meets beautiful women. Having read all Bukowski's novels, this one just doesn't have what the other books have, and that's too bad. It's written even more simply than usual, the plot is illogical (deus ex machina is a steady plot point), and it barely even has any of his usual philosophizing. Bukowski just doesn't seem to have his heart in this one, for whatever reason, and it shows; it's even dedicated to "bad writing." Although it has echoes of Bukowski, it wouldn't take a Bukowski to write this. Pulp didn't take long to read and I did want to finish all his novels, but unless you're Bukowski completist like me, this one's not necessary. The one thing I did appreciate was one of the few bits of philosophy Bukowski shares: "There were a lot of good people sleeping in the streets. They weren't fools, they just didn't fit into the needed machinery of the moment. And those needs kept altering." I can't say why he wrote this, there could be a dozen reasons, but in Pulp Bukowski was no longer Bukowski. [2.5 Stars]
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