In what is widely hailed as the best of his many novels, Charles Bukowski details the long, lonely years of his own hardscrabble youth in the raw voice of alter ego Henry Chinaski. From a harrowingly cheerless childhood in Germany through acne-riddled high school years and his adolescent discoveries of alcohol, woman, and the Los Angeles Public Library's collection of D.H. Lawrence, Ham on Rye offers a crude, brutal, and savagely funny portrait of an outcast's coming-of-age during the desperate days of the Great Depression.
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About the Author
Charles Bukowski is one of America’s best-known contemporary writers of poetry and prose and, many would claim, its most influential and imitated poet. He was born in 1920 in Andernach, Germany, to an American soldier father and a German mother, and brought to the United States at the age of two. He was raised in Los Angeles and lived there for over fifty years. He died in San Pedro, California, on March 9, 1994, at the age of seventy-three, shortly after completing his last novel, Pulp.
Abel Debritto, a former Fulbright scholar and current Marie Curie fellow, works in the digital humanities. He is the author of Charles Bukowski, King of the Underground, and the editor of the Bukowski collections On Writing, On Cats, and On Love.
Date of Birth:August 16, 1920
Date of Death:March 9, 1994
Place of Birth:Andernach, Germany
Place of Death:San Pedro, California
Education:Los Angeles City College, 2 years
Read an Excerpt
The first thing I remember is being under something. It was a table, I saw a table leg, I saw the legs of the people, and a portion of the tablecloth hanging down. It was dark under there, I liked being under there. It must have been in Germany. I must have been between one and two years old. It was 1922. I felt good under the table. Nobody seemed to know that I was there. There was sunlight upon the rug and on the legs of the people. I liked the sunlight. The legs of the people were not interesting, not like the tablecloth which hung down, not like the table leg, not like the sunlight.
Then there is nothing ... then a Christmas tree. Candles. Bird ornaments: birds with small berry branches in their beaks. A star. Two large people fighting, screaming. People eating, always people eating. I ate too. My spoon was bent so that if I wanted to eat I had to pick the spoon up with my right hand. If I picked it up with my left hand, the spoon bent away from my mouth. I wanted to pick the spoon up with my left hand.
Two people: one larger with curly hair, a big nose, a big mouth, much eyebrow; the larger person always seeming to be angry, often screaming; the smaller person quiet, round of face, paler, with large eyes. I was afraid of both of them. Sometimes there was a third, a fat one who wore dresses with lace at the throat. She wore a large brooch, and had many warts on her face with little hairs growing out of them. 'Emily,' they called her. These people didn't seem happy together. Emily was the grandmother, my father's mother. My father's name was 'Henry'. My mother's name was'Katherine'. I never spoke to them by name. I was 'Henry, Jr.' These people spoke German most of the time and in the beginning I did too.
The first thing I remember my grandmother saying was, 'I will bury all of you!' She said this the first time just before we began eating a meal, and she was to say it many times after that, just before we began to eat. Eating seemed very important. We ate mashed potatoes and gravy, especially on Sundays. We also ate roast beef, knockwurst and sauerkraut, green peas, rhubarb, carrots, spinach, string beans, chicken, meatballs and spaghetti, sometimes mixed with ravioli; there were boiled onions, asparagus, and every Sunday there was strawberry shortcake with vanilla ice cream. For breakfasts we had french toast and sausages, or there were hotcakes or waffles with bacon and scrambled eggs on the side. And there was always coffee. But what I remember best is all the mashed potatoes and gravy and my grandmother, Emily, saying, 'I will bury all of you!'
She visited us often after we came to America, taking the red trolley in from Pasadena to Los Angeles. We only went to see her occasionally, driving out in the Model-T Ford.
I liked my grandmother's house. It was a small house under an overhanging mass of pepper trees. Emily had all her canaries in different cages. I remember one visit best. That evening she went about covering the cages with white hoods so that the birds could sleep. The people sat in chairs and talked. There was a piano and I sat at the piano and hit the keys and listened to the sounds as the people talked. I liked the sound of the keys best up at one end of the piano where there was hardly any sound at all the sound the keys made was like chips of ice striking against one another.
'Will you stop that?' my father said loudly.
'Let the boy play the piano,' said my grandmother.
My mother smiled.
'That boy,' said my grandmother, 'when I tried to pick him up out of the cradle to kiss him, he reached up and hit me in the nose!'
They talked some more and I went on playing the piano.
'Why don't you get that thing tuned?' asked my father.
Then I was told that we were going to see my grandfather. My grandfather and grandmother were not living together. I was told that my grandfather was a bad man, that his breath stank.
'Why does his breath stink?'
They didn't answer.
'Why does his breath stink?'
We got into the Model-T and drove over to see my Grandfather Leonard. As we drove up and stopped he was standing on the porch of his house. He was old but he stood very straight. He had been an army officer in Germany and had come to America when he heard that the streets were paved with gold. They weren't, so he became the head of a construction firm.
The other people didn't get out of the car. Grandfather wiggled a finger at me. Somebody opened a door and I climbed out and walked toward him. His hair was pure white and long and his beard was pure white and long, and as I got closer I saw that his eyes were brilliant, like blue lights watching me. I stopped a little distance away from him.
'Henry,' he said, 'you and I, we know each other. Come into the house.'
He held out his hand. As I got closer I could smell the stink of his breath. It was very strong but he was the most beautiful man I had ever seen and I wasn't afraid.
I went into his house with him. He led me to a chair.
'Sit down, please. I'm very happy to see you.'
He went into another room. Then he came out with a little tin box.
'It's for you. Open it.'
I had trouble with the lid, I couldn't open the box.
'Here,' he said, 'let me have it.'
He loosened the lid and handed the tin box back to me. I lifted the lid and here was this cross, a German cross with a ribbon.
'Oh no? 'I said, 'you keep it.'
'It's yours,' he said, 'it's just a gummy badge.'
'You better go now. They will be worried.'
'All right. Goodbye.'
'Goodbye, Henry. No, wait ...'
I stopped. He reached into a small front pocket of his pants with a couple of fingers, and tugged at a long gold chain with his other hand. Then he handed me his gold pocket watch, with the chain.
'Thank you, Grandfather ...'
They were waiting outside and I got into the Model-T and we drove off. They all talked about many things as we drove along. They were always talking, and they talked all the way back to my grandmother's house. They spoke of many things but never, once, of my grandfather.
I remember the Model-T. Sitting high, the running boards seemed friendly, and on cold days, in the mornings, and often at other times, my father had to fit the hand-crank into the front of the engine and crank it many times in order to start the car.
'A man can get a broken arm doing this. It kicks back like a horse.'
We went for Sunday rides in the Model-T when grandmother didn't visit. My parents liked the orange groves, miles and miles of orange trees always either in blossom or full of oranges. My parents had a picnic basket and a metal chest. In the metal chest were frozen cans of fruit on dry ice, and in the picnic basket were weenies and liverwurst and salami sandwiches, potato chips, bananas and soda-pop. The soda-pop was shifted continually back and forth between the metal box and the picnic basket. It froze quickly, and then had to be thawed.
My father smoked Camel cigarettes and he knew many tricks and games which he showed us with the packages of Camel cigarettes. How many pyramids were there? Count them. We would count them and then he would show us more of them.
There were also tricks about the humps on the camels and about the written words on the package. Camel cigarettes were magic cigarettes.
There was a particular Sunday I can recall. The picnic basket was empty. Yet we still drove along through the orange groves, further and further away from where we lived.
'Daddy,' my mother asked, 'aren't we going to run out of gas?'
'No, there's plenty of god-damned gas.'
'Where are we going?'
'I'm going to get me some god-damned oranges!'
My mother sat very still as we drove along. My father pulled up alongside the road, parked near a wire fence and we sat there, listening. Then my father kicked the door open and got out.
'Bring the basket.'
We all climbed through the strands of the fence.
'Follow me,' said my father.
Then we were between two rows of orange trees, shaded from the sun by the branches and the leaves. My father stopped and reaching up began yanking oranges from the lower branches of the nearest tree. He seemed angry, yanking the oranges from the tree, and the branches seemed angry, leaping up and down. He threw the oranges into the picnic basket which my mother held. Sometimes he missed and I chased the oranges and put them into the basket. My father went from tree to tree, yanking at the lower branches, throwing the oranges into the picnic basket.
'Daddy, we have enough,' said my mother.
He kept yanking.
Then a man stepped forward, a very tall man. He held a shotgun.
'All right, buddy, what do you think you're doing?'
'I'm picking oranges. There are plenty of oranges.'
'These are my oranges. Now, listen to me, tell your woman to dump them.'
'There are plenty of god-damned oranges. You're not going to miss a few god-damned oranges.'
'I'm not going to miss any oranges. Tell your woman to dump them.'
The man pointed his shotgun at my father.
'Dump them,' my father told my mother.
The oranges rolled to the ground.
'Now,' said the man, 'get out of my orchard.'
'You don't need all these oranges.'
'I know what I need. Now get out of here.'
'Guys like you ought to be hung!'
'I'm the law here. Now move!'
The man raised his shotgun again. My father turned and began walking out of the orange grove. We followed him and the man trailed us. Then we got into the car but it was one of those times when it wouldn't start. My father got out of the car to crank it. He cranked it twice and it wouldn't start. My father was beginning to sweat. The man stood at the edge of the road.
'Get that god-damned cracker box started!' he said.
My father got ready to twist the crank again. 'We're not on your property! We can stay here as long as we damn well please!'
'Like hell! Get that thing out of here, and fast!'
My father cranked the engine again. It sputtered, then stopped. My mother sat with the empty picnic box on her lap. I was afraid to look at the man. My father whirled the crank again and the engine started. He leaped into the car and began working the levers on the steering wheel.
'Don't come back,' said the man, 'or next time it might not go so easy for you.'
My father drove the Model-T off. The man was still standing near the road. My father was driving very fast. Then he slowed the car and made a U-turn. He drove back to where the man had stood. The man was gone. We speeded back on the way out of the orange groves.
'I'm coming back some day and get that bastard,' said my father.
'Daddy, we'll have a nice dinner tonight. What would you like?' my mother asked.
'Pork chops,' he answered.
I had never seen him drive the car that fast.
My father had two brothers. The younger was named Ben and the older was named John. Both were alcoholics and ne'er-do-wells. My parents often spoke of them.
'Neither of them amount to anything,' said my father.
'You just come from a bad family, Daddy,' said my mother.
'And your brother doesn't amount to a damn either!'
My mother's brother was in Germany. My father often spoke badly of him.
I had another uncle, Jack, who was married to my father's sister, Elinore. I had never seen my Uncle Jack or my Aunt Elinore because there were bad feelings between them and my father.
'See this scar on my hand?' asked my father. 'Well, that's where Elinore stuck me with a sharp pencil when I was very young. That scar has never gone away.'
My father didn't like people. He didn't like me. 'Children should be seen and not heard,' he told me.
It was an early Sunday afternoon without Grandma Emily.
'We should go see Ben,' said my mother. 'He's dying.'
'He borrowed all that money from Emily. He pissed it away on gambling and women and booze.'
'I know, Daddy.'
'Emily won't have any money left when she dies.'
'We should still go see Ben. They say he has only two weeks left.'
'All right, all right! We'll go!'
So we went and got into the Model-T and started driving. It took some time, and my mother had to stop for flowers. It was a long drive toward the mountains. We reached the foothills and took the little winding mountain road upwards. Uncle Ben was in a sanitarium up there, dying of TB.
'It must cost Emily a lot of money to keep Ben up here,' said my father.
'Maybe Leonard is helping.'
'Leonard doesn't have anything. He drank it up and he gave it away.'
'I like Grandpa Leonard,' I said.
'Children should be seen and not heard,' said my father. Then he continued, 'Ah, that Leonard, the only time he was good to us children was when he was drunk. He'd joke with us and give us money. But the next day when he was sober he was the meanest man in the world.'
The Model-T was climbing the mountain road nicely. The air was clear and sunny.
'Here it is,' said my father. He guided the car into the parking lot of the sanitarium and we got out. I followed my mother and father into the building. As we entered his room, my Uncle Ben was sitting upright in bed, staring out the window. He turned and looked at us as we entered. He was a very handsome man, thin, with black hair, and he had dark eyes which glittered, were brilliant with glittering light.
'Hello, Ben,' said my mother.
'Hello, Katy.' Then he looked at me. 'Is this Henry?'
My father and I sat down.
My mother stood there. 'These flowers, Ben. I don't see a vase.'
'They're nice flowers, thanks, Katy. No, there isn't a vase.'
'I'll go get a vase,' said my mother.
She left the room, holding the flowers.
'Where are all your girlfriends now, Ben?' asked my father.
'They come around.'
'They come around.'
'We're here because Katherine wanted to see you.'
'I wanted to see you too, Uncle Ben. I think you're a real pretty man.'
'Pretty like my ass,' said my father.
My mother entered the room with the flowers in a vase.
'Here, I'll put them on this table by the window.'
'They're nice flowers, Katy.'
My mother sat down.
'We can't stay too long,' said my father.
Uncle Ben reached under the mattress and his hand came out holding a pack of cigarettes. He took one out, struck a match and lit it. He took a long drag and exhaled.
'You know you're not allowed cigarettes,' said my father. 'I know how you get them. Those prostitutes bring them to you. Well, I'm going to tell the doctors about it and I'm going to get them to stop letting those prostitutes in here!'
'You're not going to do shit,' said my uncle.
'I got a good mind to rip that cigarette out of your mouth!' said my father.
'You never had a good mind,' said my uncle.
'Ben,' my mother said, 'you shouldn't smoke, it will kill you.'
'I've had a good life,' said my uncle.
'You never had a good life,' said my father. 'Lying, boozing, borrowing, whoring, drinking. You never worked a day in your life! And now you're dying at the age of twenty-four!'
'It's been all right,' said my uncle. He took another heavy drag on the Camel, then exhaled.
'Let's get out of here,' said my father. 'This man is insane!'
My father stood up. Then my mother stood up. Then I stood up.
'Goodbye, Katy,' said my uncle, 'and goodbye, Henry.' He looked at me to indicate which Henry.
We followed my father through the sanitarium halls and out into the parking lot to the Model-T. We got in, it started, and we began down the winding road out of the mountains.
'We should have stayed longer,' said my mother.
'Don't you know that TB is catching?' asked my father.
'I think he was a very pretty man,' I said.
'It's the disease,' said my father. 'It makes them look like that. And besides the TB, he's caught many other things too.'
'What kind of things?' I asked.
'I can't tell you,' my father answered. He steered the Model-T down the winding mountain road as I wondered about that.
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
HAM ON RYE is one of my all-time favorite novels. In all of Bukowski's work there is a constant search for truth and freedom. With every breath that Bukowski takes he is locked in a fevered struggle with the forces around him that contiually attempt to make him walk the path of the common man. His writing has been likened to that of McCrae (think, his KATZENJAMMER) and for a good reason: both men have a knack for keen observation, wit, and writing style that knocks you over. But Bukowski sees this ¿common man path¿ as nothing more than falling into a lock step towards certain death. Though he portrays himself as a repulsive type of human being, he is able to convince us that it is the world around him that is far more repulsive. In Ham On Rye, we are lead through the more meaningful chapters of Bukowski's childhood and early adulthood. There are very few pieces of literature that reaches readers with more honesty. I plow through Bukowski like I do Cap'n'Crunch. The man inspires drunken poetry on hot summer nights- while talking about women, booze, masturbation, classical music, & horse racing. This book is my new favorite. Why? Because while facinating the reader with lurid tales of a painful and depressing childhood, Bukowski makes us laugh, cry, and feel sorry for that kid we made fun of in 7th grade. If you liked POST OFFICE or McCrae¿s KATZENJAMMER, then you¿ll love HAM ON RYE as well. All are great, and this novel is the best place to start if you¿re new to the BUKOWSKI canon of literature.
This was the first venture i made into the world of Bukowski. It is well written and fairly quick read. Highly recommended!
I heard about the author when i was watching some countdown on Comedy Central. I have seen the light. When u read you feel like u are living Henry's life with him. i felt what the character felt. I like books that make u feel that u are there wit the person. Well written. Cop it, u will not be disappointed.
The violence described in the book shocked me at first.I kept reading though and liked it very much.It will speak to the loser in you.This book is a quick read and its very straightforward.
Bukowski wrote exactly liked he looked: Tough, ugly, honest, and nonetheless compelling. His prose shocks with its humor, brutality, realism, but crackles with a uniquely lean, clean prose that you simply can't stop reading. Ham on Rye is his best book. His other novels are great also, especially Factotem. Anyone that hasn't read him, find him, do so, and you won't stop until you've read more.
This was the very first book I read written by Bukowski and after I was done, I knew he was my favorite. This is a must read for anyone who is in their teenage years or who once was!!!! So in other words if you can read this book is for you. Warning...If you are one of those people who like to criticize people who really use their imagination in language....then this book may not become one of your favorites. LOL Enjoy it I'm buying a second copy for my brother who is in high school right now, he needs the reading, and this is a book thats fun!
Bukowski's inimitable style gets altered in his fourth novel to mirror the thoughts of a younger person and it works brilliantly. Even better is how he slides from that style into the more familiar style of Post Office and Factotum by the end of the novel to give it continuity with those other books. It definitely has humor enough to spare, but the style makes it a higher achievement than his other novels.
strange yet somewhat addicting.
This memoir-style novel is shocking, irreverent, hilarious, tragic, and (bare your soul in all it's faults) real. I love an underdog. This is the novel of a self-aspiring underdog with few aspirations and even less means to make something of himself. Some portions of the novel will deeply disturb readers, but I found that these sections added authenticity to the Chinaski character and served to reinforce the flow and general direction of the novel. I found this novel to be deeply touching; it can resonate on many levels with an individual's battle to overcome the multitude of obstacles that can be found in life.
My introduction to the novels of Charles Bukowski. I'm not sure if I would like to read the other, more adult adventures of narrator Henry Chinaski, but the author's accessible style and dry wit is very refreshing and funny. 'Ham on Rye' is a darker, sharper take on 'The Catcher in the Rye', preoccupied with the immature concerns of an adolescent boy - sex, and proving how tough he thinks he is. Anecdotal in the telling, every other 'memory' of growing up in LA for Chinaski/Bukowski is about getting into a fight, and whereas some 'memories' ring true, most sound like immature bravado. A product of time and circumstance, Henry is disadvantaged from childhood, living with a bullying father in Depression-era America, but his street smarts and self-deprecating humour help the reader to sympathise with him instead of judging by word and deed alone. An entertaining read.
Bukowski has always been one of those authors that I've wanted to read but never gotten around to for one reason or another. Ham on Rye was my first Bukowski novel but I suspect that it won't be my last. Having completed the book, one of the things that I find myself wanting to do is to compare it to A Catcher in the Rye since they are both novels about coming of age. I find the "Rye" part of both titles a bit ironic as rye has little to do with either story. In so far as I can remember, neither ham nor rye is anywhere to be found in the tale. Maybe that's oversight on my part but I see the title to be more of a tip of the hat to Catcher. All that to say, while I found Catcher to be rather underwhelming, I enjoyed Ham on Rye very much. I've also heard/read in passing comments that Ham on Rye is (semi-)autobiographical. I don't know much about Bukowski's life (although I do plan on renting the documentary soon) but I suspect that may be true. If so, it was a pretty rough road into adulthood (read: understatement).Henry "Hank" Chinaski struggled with his parents, SEVERE acne, girls, school, work, fighting, and most of all booze. He was a tough kid raised in a tough home and as a result, he walked away with a damaged view of the world. If you're interested in more details about the book, I'll share a few in the SPOILERS section below.As I've mentioned in past reviews, I enjoy books that make you have an emotional reaction. This one succeeded at making me wince on more than one occasion. I laughed aloud a few times and I shook my head a few times as Hank continued to spiral out of control.I rated the book 3.5 stars for me because I enjoyed it. Based on what I've said above, you can probably already tell if you'd like it or not. If you like Hubert Selby, Jr., Kerouac, Hunter Thompson, etc. you'll like it. If you like your fiction neat, tidy, and happy, stear clear.*****SPOILERS HEREAFTER*****Hank Chinaski was raised in an abusive home where his father used the leather shaving strop to whip Hank on a daily basis. One of the more memorable scenes was Hank's father looking for any "little hairs" sticking up from the freshly cut lawn. When putting his head to the ground and finding two missed blades of grass, he proceeded to give Hank his beating. It was at this point that despite his pain, Hank no longer reacted to the whippings. He challeged his father to fight him and the beatings ceased. Hank's mother never stepped in to stop the abuse. You're lead to believe this is a result of her own physical abuse at the hands of the father.Hank learned his street smarts on his own and always reveled in being a tough guy. He liked to fight. He liked being a loner. He liked to offend everyone. Oddly enough, despite all that, he had a difficult time saying no to other exiled kids who latched onto him. You felt there was a kindness somewhere within that never surfaced.Hank's acne and lustful thoughts played a large role in the story. I would expect that of a story about a boy becoming a man. Unfortunately for our protagonist, he suffered acne so bad that it became huge boils. He frequented the hospital for treatment to this ailment but it never really improved. As a result, his lust was at a distance. In the story, he really only had one shot at sex - with a friend's mother - and he was too freaked out when the opportunity arose to do anything about it.The largest part of the story is dedicated to Hank's downward spiral into alcoholism. It grew until he was constantly drunk and struggling for some direction in life. He only knew that he wanted to drink and to write. Given that this may be autobiographical, I suppose he did.
Though Bukowski has become the cult hero of modern libertines, Ham on Rye shows why Bukowski became "Bukowski." This book with change your impression of Buk if you've read him before, and it will make you wanting more if this is your first Bukowski experience.
Interesting. I enjoy reading "coming of age" novels, but this one left me slightly depressed, but I enjoyed the writing.
Bukowski learns to fight, socialize, play football, and be tough. He learns how to take a beating and become stronger in spite of it. He hates his father and all of his father's philosophy. He starts to drink. This novel is one of the great coming of age stories the 20th century despite its crude nature.
Ham on Rye is the story of Henry Chinaski¿s unruly and depressing youth and young adulthood. Before the success from writing and before the women, there was an abusive father, ineffectual mother, sexual frustration, schoolyard beatings, and the discovery of alcohol. Chinaski doesn¿t feel he fits in anywhere. Writing, drinking, and fighting are the only things he likes.The Great Depression, poverty, abuse, loneliness ¿ Bukowski makes it brutally funny. ¿I made practice runs down to skid row to get ready for my future.¿
Liked it. One of Bukowski's better novels.
Bukowski comes clean on some things in this book, compared to the others I've read. In this one we actually learn about some of his influences (other than John Fante), and some of the writers he recoiled from. Perhaps he tells the reader less later on (this book has the feel of being written earlier) because his detachment by then had become a style, a manifestation of the pretension that gives his Chinaski alter ego life: a style that pushes aside some of the vulnerable details that peek out in Ham and Rye. Bukowski hates pretense. It's what makes him fascinating, and laudable. He hates it with such passion it brings to mind Celine, another misanthrope who knew how to write, and perhaps the greatest hater to be taken seriously by a literate audience. (I think he's the best.) And, like Celine, there are signs that because of it, Bukowski can be a nasty MF. His takedown of Henry Miller in another book, for instance--a transparent aka living in Pacific Palisades, an old man at the time, trying to cadge money from his young visitor. But back to Ham on Rye: Somewhere along the way I realized I was taking it all in as if reading a noir mystery--a Jim Thompson--which is a genre I like, but whose limitations I understand. And I realized too, a moment later, that I'd lowered my expectations, to better accept Bukowsky for what he is: a very good but not a mind-blowing writer. Hence the four stars.
This book is Bukowski's best work of fiction. Unlike Women and Post Office, Bukowski really allows the readers of Ham on Rye a glimpse into his heart and not just his liver
Bukowski's formative years laid bare. No shirking from a fully detailed relation of his torment and tormentors. A writer unafraid to tell it like it is. Disarms all with frank statements and vivid recollection of mood, emotion, settings, names and places, his excellent memory is part revenge on all those that crossed him over the years. As always he manages to capture all those thoughts and feelings, that for most people are purposefully buried deep down beyond retrieval, expose them on the page with seemingly no effort, definitely no pretense and sign his name.
Definitely a depressing book, but gives an essential background to Chinansky that will help you understand the rest of Bukowski's work.
This book is a must read
Buko wiki sometimes embellished when he ought to ease up and let us appreciate his unflinching eye for finding the raw, rare moments that make us uncomfortably aware of our flaws and our innate animal nature. Take his ego out of tge story and this is as good as prose gets. Hemingway-esque declarative sentences, and fearless snapshots from the bottom of the abyss of poverty. It's a punch to the face worth taking.
Reminds me lot of Hubert Selby's Last Exit to Brooklyn.