South of No North: Stories of the Buried Life

Charles Bukowski (1920-1994) had a gift for creating evocative titles. The title of this book, "South of No North: Stories of the Buried Life" (1975) captures hauntingly the sense of loneliness, alienation, and aloneness that underlies the 27 short stories in this volume.

Bukowski began writing short stories at an early age while he supported himself doing odd jobs and through work at the Post Office. He then turned to poetry and, eventually, to writing novels at the urging of John Martin of Black Sparrow Press. Bukowski continued to write stories and columns for underground newspapers in Los Angeles. Some of the stories are included here.

As are the novels, Bukowski's stories are raw and gritty. They are filled with life in Los Angeles flophouses and cheap rooming houses. The stories feature chronic alcoholism, crude sexuality, sexual frustration, horseplaying, violence, and joblessness. They are a chronicle of the life of the down-and-outer.

Many of the stories are told in the voice of Henry Chinaski, the autobiographical character that is at the center of Bukowski's novels. But interestingly, some of the stories in this collection feature other characters and settings. The collection includes, for example a fanciful story set in the old West, "Stop Staring ... Mister", and stories with imaginative, if macabre themes, including "No way to Paradise", "Maja Thurup" and "The Devil was Hot".

The dominant impression these stories convey is one of loneliness and isolation. Whether the character is Chinaski or another individual, Bukowski writes of individuals who lack social connectedness and sense of purpose. His characters are perpetual outsiders who mock a world they cannot share and simultaneously tear themselves apart. Dostoevsky's Underground Man is a distant cousin of most of the characters we meet in Bukowski's stories. Another book that I find similar in tone, set in New York City rather than the west coast is Hubert Selby's "Last Exit to Brooklyn" which shares much of the grimness, loneliness, sexual obsession, and search for love that I find in Bukowski.

Some of the works included in this collection are more vignettes than short stories. There is little in the way of development and in some cases the climax of the story is nonexistent or misfires. There are interesting settings, however, in many of these stories and as sketches many of them work well.

The stories that exemplify the theme of loneliness for me include the first one in the collection, titled "Loneliness" and the story "Remember Pearl Harbor?" which tells of Chinaski's rejection for military service in WW II. These stories are good at sketching the nature of the rootless, lonely individual. Some of the other stories in this collection that I thought good are "Bop Bop against that Curtain", "Christ on Rollerskates", "Hit Man", "Pittsburgh Phil & Co" (a fine story about gambling at the racetrack) and "Confessions of a Man Insane Enough to Live with Beasts."

Bukowski writes simply with short sentences in a style filled with explecatives and references to sexual and excrecatory functions. I became interested in Bukowski's writings several years ago, put them aside, and then reread some of them after viewing an excellent film on Bukowski's life: "Bukowski: Born into This". Bukowski is hardly a writer for all times and all seasons. But there is a toughness and raw humor in these books, and a sense of loss and sadness that make Bukowski's books highly evocative of certain kinds of blue and lonely feelings. The stories are metaphors of a buried life than many people see in themeselves at times in somewhat different ways than the ways presented in Bukowski's writings. That is why, I think, Bukowski continues to have a following and to be read.

Robin Friedman

Bukowski captures the essence of skid row. He is the voice of those who have given up on society, and maybe on themselves. This is an intersting take. These forgoton masses are usually kept silent, and often oppressed by labels...drunk, bum, trash. But through his writing, Bukowski has shown that these people which society deems worthless, are actually people with souls, hopes, and dreams. These hopes and dreams may not always be within the mores of society, but they are hopes and dreams nontheless. Bukowski brought a picture of those select people out of the gutter, and into the minds of main stream society.

Charles Bukowski�s work is fixated upon the underbelly of society, where the unctuous underachieving degenerate is glorified, low-life living is made normal, and alcoholism and crime not only flourish but are revered.
In his short story �GUTS� Bukowski describes what is the ubiquitous theme common to all of his work: �I�ve always admired the villain, the outlaw, the [SOB]. I don�t like the clean-shaven boy with the necktie and the good job. I like desperate men, men with broken teeth and broken minds and broken ways�I also like vile women, drunk cursing [b�s] with loose stockings and sloppy mascara faces. I�m more interested in perverts than Saints. I can relax with bums because I am a bum. I don�t like laws, morals, religions, rules. I don�t like to be shaped by society.�
Unfortunately, many readers have difficulty looking past this admission, and find him unnecessarily offensive, dismissing him as a drunken vulgarion with a typewriter.
It�s too bad that Bukowski was obsessed with X rated themes and language, because he wrote in a style that read fast and easy, is entertaining, and could have been accessible to a very wide audience had he chosen a �lighter� subject.
Despite all this, I cannot honestly say that I dislike his work. I fact, I find his work to be page after page of comedy and, quite frankly, liberating from the structures and confines of everyday life. Yet, at the same time, although I often find myself describing Bukowski�s work as: crude, offensive, juvenile, among other things, I look past this because I do not read Bukowski�s work for some profound meaning or insight to life but strictly for fun, therefore expecting little more than alcohol induced writing at times resembling no more than bar banter.
However, even I, in my lingering immaturity, was shocked and repulsed by what appeared to be a casual and tacit endorsement of rape in several stories. Sometimes I feel that Bukowski writes the way he does about the things he does because he�s still trying to impress the guys in his high school class, inmates, or briny sailors�pirates to be sure.
If you haven�t read any of his work this is a good introduction of what you�ll be getting from his novels. The short stories range from excellent to good, and are better than most of the pages found in his novels, given that the nature of the short story forced Bukowski to get to the point instead of wasting paper in drunken rambling.
There are numerous good shorts here, among my favorites are: �CLASS,� where Hank Chinaski not only boxes but knocks out Ernest Hemingway; and, �BOP BOP BEHIND THE CURTAIN,� a piece about teenage frolics to a burlesque show, and the hardships of life during the depression.

One of those nights...

And it's warm beer and cold women, know I just don't fit in

Cause every joint I stumbled into tonight

That's just how it's been

All these double knit strangers with

gin and vermouth and recycled stories in the naugahyde booths

With the platinum blondes and tobacco brunettes

I'll be drinkin' to forget you

I'll light another cigarette

And the band's playing something by Tammy Wynette

And the drinks are on me tonight

All my conversations now I'll just be talkin' about you baby

Boring some sailor as I try to get through

I just want him to listen now

I said that's all you have to do

He said I'm better off without you till I showed him my tattoo

And now the moon's rising, ain't got no time to lose

Time to get down to drinking

Tell the band to play the blues

Now the drink's are on me, I'll buy a couple rounds

At the last ditch attempt saloon

Warm beer, cold women, No I just don't fit in

Every joint I stumbled into tonight

That's just how it's been

All these double knit strangers with gin and vermouth

Receding hairlines in the naugahyde booths

And the platinum blonde, tobacco brunette

I'll be drinking to forget you babe

I'll light a menthal another cigarette

And the band's playing something by Johnnie Barnett

At the last ditch hotel saloon

-It's Buk. Not much more needs to be said than that. You can't really go wrong picking ANYTHING by him and just going with it. This is no exception. Truly no exception. It's absolutely perfect, from start to finish, and truly captures all that is, and was, Buk. Get this, and cherish it and you will not regret it. Swipe a bottle of scotch before you settle in with it, and you'll be even happier.

One of those nights...

And it's warm beer and cold women, know I just don't fit in

Cause every joint I stumbled into tonight

That's just how it's been

All these double knit strangers with

gin and vermouth and recycled stories in the naugahyde booths

With the platinum blondes and tobacco brunettes

I'll be drinkin' to forget you

I'll light another cigarette

And the band's playing something by Tammy Wynette

And the drinks are on me tonight

All my conversations now I'll just be talkin' about you baby

Boring some sailor as I try to get through

I just want him to listen now

I said that's all you have to do

He said I'm better off without you till I showed him my tattoo

And now the moon's rising, ain't got no time to lose

Time to get down to drinking

Tell the band to play the blues

Now the drink's are on me, I'll buy a couple rounds

At the last ditch attempt saloon

Warm beer, cold women, No I just don't fit in

Every joint I stumbled into tonight

That's just how it's been

All these double knit strangers with gin and vermouth

Receding hairlines in the naugahyde booths

And the platinum blonde, tobacco brunette

I'll be drinking to forget you babe

I'll light a menthal another cigarette

And the band's playing something by Johnnie Barnett

At the last ditch hotel saloon

-It's Buk. Not much more needs to be said than that. You can't really go wrong picking ANYTHING by him and just going with it. This is no exception. Truly no exception. It's absolutely perfect, from start to finish, and truly captures all that is, and was, Buk. Get this, and cherish it and you will not regret it. Swipe a bottle of scotch before you settle in with it, and you'll be even happier.

South of No North is a collection of short stories as uneven and mercurial as Charles Bukowski himself. I breezed through his six novels years ago and find myself missing his voice as a narrator so I think I'll go through his short story collections now. His work on aggregate--sometimes bad, often great--inspires and entertains. The stories here are no exception. Many are not memorable, but the excellence of "The Devil Was Hot," "Guts," "A Shipping Clerk with a Red Nose," and "This is What Killed Dylan Thomas" merit a 5-Star rating. These tales are very humorous stories and full of life. They'll make you laugh and admire the honesty of old Hank. A lot of the themes developed are bare bones versions of plots that later appear in his novels. South of No North is a must have for any fans of the Great Buk!

One of Bukowski's best. Not for stuffed shirts and the like.
The overrated, no-talent , degreed types continue to be bugged because they don't get it/him. I say: too bad. Because Bukowski continues to be read and is more popular than ever! This is a fine story collection. Original.

Bukowski never fails me. This is another example of his genius(medness?) Any fan of the music and bands he inspires today (Hot Water Music, Senses Fail, Modest Mouse, Thursday) will enjoy anything he writes.

Not all of Bukowski's enormous output of poetry is of equally high quality, but I've yet to read a Bukowski short story that wasn't well crafted. Whatever your attitude toward his subject matter and apparent philosophy of life, you must respect his lean and evocative prose style. Anyone trying to write should acquire his skill at conveying everything needed with the minimum of words. This is a trait shared by most good writing, and it can be acquired through practice. The first step is to know exactly what it is you want to tell.
If good writing can be learned, then why aren't we all renowned authors? That's where talent comes aboard, and talent is what showed Bukowski the universal and engaging elements around him and let him express them effectively via fictional and autobiographical characters.

Anyone who thinks that Kurt Cobain invented modern angst has obviously never read anything by the late Charles Bukowski. Bukowski was writing about how much the world sucks, how much people suck, before Kurt Cobain was even in the womb--and, I might add, doing it much more eloquently and disturbingly than the best of Nirvana's songs.
That being said, this collection of short stories is most certainly not for the faint of heart; nor is it for anyone who would be offended by blatant misogyny. (As a feminist, it seems I would fall into this category, however, I am such a fan of Bukowski that I simply overlook this.)
Bukowski's short stories are wonderful, although the material is most definitely disturbing in most cases. He writes about the mundane, the hardships of being a "starving artist," and most of all about being a drunk. It's both disturbing and fascinating, however--kind of like a horrible car wreck from which you can't look away, no matter how hard you try. He writes about the dark side of life so vividly that you can almost picture every scene, every character, every detail of the writing. He is mostly straightforward, allowing a bit of pretentiousness in every now and again--as when a character says "My stomach is raw and contains nine-tenths of my soul"--but he somehow makes it work.
Bukowski was, and is, definitely a great writer. He makes the words bleed from the page like no one else I have read in a long time, and he keeps you turning the pages to find out what sick and twisted topic will be next. Excellent reading--but beware of the effect it could have on your mental state.