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People who believe in politics are like people who believe in God: they are sucking wind through bent straws.
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
Like
People
Sucking
Straws
Bent
Wind
Politics
Believe
More quotes by Charles Bukowski
The worst thing for a writer is to know another writer, and worse than that, to know a number of other writers. Like flies on the same turd.
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Don't ever write a novel unless it hurts like a hot turd coming out.
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there's no clarity. there was never meant to be clarity.
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I am a dolt of a man, easily made happy or even stupidly happy almost without cause and left alone I am mostly content.
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there is a loneliness in this world so great that you can see it in the slow movement of the hands of a clock
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Only the boring get bored
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I can't blame her. but wonder why she's here with me? where are the other guys? how can you be lucky? having someone the others have abandoned?
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Never trust a man in a jumpsuit
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Some people like what you do, some people hate what you do, but most people simply don't give a damn.
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Banion wondered which was worse - being sodomized by aliens, or having to sit through two hours of Charles Ives.
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Disneyland remains the central attraction of Southern California, but the graveyard remains our reality.
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Most people's deaths are a sham. There's nothing left to die.
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The Artist, an ancient sage had once said, is always sitting on the doorsteps of the rich.
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But my whole life has been a matter of fighting for one simple hour to do what I want to do. There was always something getting in the way of my getting to myself.
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Alcohol is probably one of the greatest things to arrive upon the earth - alongside of me.
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Sometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think, I'm not going to make it, but you laugh inside — remembering all the times you've felt that way.
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Baby, I said. I'm a genius but nobody knows it but me.
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A love like that was a serious illness, an illness from which you never entirely recover.
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nobody can save you but yourself. you will be put again and again into nearly impossible situations. they will attempt again and again through subterfuge, guise and force to make you submit, quit and/or die quietly inside. nobody can save you but yourself
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all that I know is that I believe in the sound of music and the running of a horse. all else is squabble.
Charles Bukowski
