You will not find someone who has crystallised the cynicism that being an alcoholic brings better than Mr. B.

I picked up Factotum last year. I guess I am a Victorian at heart. I squirmed and felt real revulsion reading it. But then I read Moravagine by Cendrars, which is more depraved, and felt nothing but glee. There is something unseemly about a person who drinks to oblivion, cannot hold the simplest of jobs, and screws disgusting masses of flesh. But there is something amusing about a deformed, psychotic destroyer. On paper.

Cendrars:

"I heard a loud scream and saw my animal come running, a bloody knife in his hand. I pulled him hurriedly aboard and we were off. He leant over to me: "I got her!"

"What, what?"

"The little girl picking brushwood at the foot of the wall!"

Bukowski:

"I tried to make a woman out of you but you'll never be anything but a god damned whore!" I back-handed her and knocked her off her stool. She fell flat on the floor and screamed. I picked up her drink and finished it. Then I slowly walked toward the exit."

Escaping from a mental asylum and pausing to knife a young girl for no reason: funny.

Entering a bar to batter your fellow alcoholic and girlfriend: detestable.

I shall now read Factotum, which has been gathering dust for about two years now. Just got about the last 30 pages of Adrift in Soho to finish. Which doesn't seem as good as the first time I read it. Thanks for the reminder.