I concede two stars to this book only because I assume that I read a bad translation. Celine certainly shouldn't be criticized because I can't read French when there are so many other good reasons to criticize him! I've heard Celine's influence on Bukowski commented on several times, and I can only assume that this is because of Bukowski's admission of having read Celine, since the two authors are connected in no other way. Whereas Bukowski's HAM ON RYE is a timeless exploration of what it means to be a youth in America, Celine resorts to self-pitying and annoying drivel. Celine displays none of the youthful self-examination that lends beauty to the horrible events of Bukowski's life. Instead, all misfortune is blamed on those Celine comes in contact with, begging the question: If all of the characters are horrible thieves and liars and the author/narrator is a whining, sniveling self-apologist, then where is the sympathy of the reader to reside? It is because of this lack of compassion with the people of the book that interest is lost quicly. After that loss of interest, the book is simply one anecdote after another from the life of a man bathing in his own self-pity.