“Ham on Rye”

I have just read Charles Bukowski’s Ham on Rye in double-quick time. It’s urgent, powerful, raw – and like Henry Chinaski himself, doesn’t pull any punches. It’s a book which also peels back layers on society, on belonging (and not belonging), on the treadmill of vacuous routine. Pointlessness is never very far away, and romance … Continue reading “Ham on Rye” →