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…He was always high on drugs. I was not a drug man, but in case I wanted to hide from myself for a few days, I knew I could get anything I wanted from him.

Charles Bukowski

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Charles Bukowski
Age: 73 †
Born: 1920
Born: August 16
Died: 1994
Died: March 9
Actor
Author
Autobiographer
Columnist
Diarist
Journalist
Novelist
Poet
Screenwriter
Writer
Henry Charles Bukowski
Buk
charles bukowski
Anything
Hide
Wanted
Drugs
Always
Case
Men
Drug
Cases
Knew
Days
High

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Our disappointment sits between us.
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I'm going, she said. I love you but you're crazy, you're doomed.
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Something that never happens anywhere at any time.
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Each person is only given so many evenings and each wasted evening is a gross violation against the natural course of your only life.
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I never write in the daytime. It's like running through the shopping mall with your clothes off. Everybody can see you. At night ... that's when you pull the tricks ... magic.
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That's what friendship means: sharing the prejudice of experience.
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sometimes I hate you, she said.
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I still have a little whiskey left and therefore a chance.
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Sometimes I get too exhausted to even feel bad
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Bad taste creates many more millionaires than good taste.
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People were interesting at first. Then later, slowly but surely, all the flaws and madness would manifest themselves. I would become less and less to them they would mean less and less to me.
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I can almost understand why people leap from bridges.
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They looked as if nothing had ever touched them--all well-mothered, protected, with a soft sheen of contentment. None of them had ever been in jail, or worked hard with their hands, or even gotten a traffic ticket. Skimmed-milk jollies, the whole bunch.
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there are policemen in the street and angels in the clouds
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I kept telling myself that all the women in the world weren´t whores, just mine.
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I knew I was strong, and maybe like they said, crazy. But I had this feeling inside of me that something real was there.
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It was like any other relationship, there was jealousy on both sides, there were split-ups and reconciliations. There were also fragmented moments of great peace and beauty. I often tried to get away from her and she tried to get away from me but it was difficult: Cupid, in his strange way, was really there.
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So, that’s what they wanted: lies. Beautiful lies. That’s what they needed. People were fools. It was going to be easy for me.
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They swallow God without thinking, they swallow country without thinking. Soon they forget how to think, they let others think for them.
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Most people are much better at saying things in letters than in conversation, and some people can write artistic, inventive letters, but when they try a poem or story or novel they become pretentious.
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