This is probably thinly-disguised autobiography, as much of Bukowski's prose may be. A (non-)spiritual literary descendant of Henry Miller, Bukowski wrote and screwed his way through the world, but redeemed himself to the extent that he never kidded himself or others. He never pretended to be anything he wasn't, and he wrote fine, honest -- if often vulgar -- prose. Something of an acquired taste, his view from the gutter has a refreshing honesty about it, one that may show the reader sides of the world (and even him- or herself) that is rarely encountered in literature.
The review of this Book prepared by David Loftus