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...in that drunken place you would like to hand your heart to her and say touch it but then give it back.

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
Give
Back
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Heart
Drunken
Would
Touch
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Hand
Place
Hands

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... to die on a kitchen floor at 7 o'clock in the morning while other people are frying eggs is not so rough unless it happens to you.
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I am not like other people. I am burning in hell. The hell of myself.
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It’s so easy to be easy—if you let it.
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It was a joy! Words weren't dull, words were things that could make your mind hum. If you read them and let yourself feel the magic, you could live without pain, with hope, no matter what happened to you.
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And there I was, 225 pounds, perpetually lost and confused, short legs, ape-like upper body, all chest, no neck, head too large, blurred eyes, hair uncombed, 6 feet of geek, waiting for her.
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Style is the answer to everything. A fresh way to approach a dull or dangerous thing. To do a dull thing with style is preferable to doing a dangerous thing without it. To do a dangerous thing with style is what I call art.
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Human relationships are strange. I mean, you are with one person a while, eating and sleeping and living with them, loving them, talking to them, going places together, and then it stops.
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We do not abandon ship. I say, as corny as it may sound, through the strength and spirit and fire and dare and gamble of a few men in a few ways we can save the carcass of humanity from drowning. No light goes out until it goes out. Let's fight as men, not rats. Period. No further addition.
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We're all going to die, all of us, what a circus!
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Some lose all mind and become soul,insane. some lose all soul and become mind, intellectual. some lose both and become accepted
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I don't think I'll travel anymore. Travel is nothing but an inconvenience. There is always enough trouble where you are.
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If I stop writing I am dead. And that's the only way I'll stop: dead.
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some moments are nice, some are nicer, some are even worth writing about.
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I took no pride in my solitude but I was dependent on it. The darkness of the room was like sunlight to me.
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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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there's no clarity. there was never meant to be clarity.
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It's hot tonight and half the neighborhood is drunk. the other half is dead. if I have any advice about writing poetry it's - don't. I'm going to send out for some fried chicken.
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the best often die by their own hand just to get away, and those left behind can never quite understand why anybody would ever want to get away from them
Charles Bukowski
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In a more universal sense, we only get one thing. You know...a head stone if we're lucky if not, green grass.
Charles Bukowski
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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.
Charles Bukowski