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love be damned now as love was damned when it first arrived.

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
Damned
Arrived
Firsts
First
Love

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I am this fiery snail crawling home.
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there are policemen in the street and angels in the clouds
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take a writer away from his typewriter and all you have left is the sickness which started him typing in the beginning
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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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My dear, Find what you love and let it kill you. Let it drain you of your all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness. Let it kill you and let it devour your remains. For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it’s much better to be killed by a lover. ~ Falsely yours
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since some people had told me that I was ugly, I always preferred shade to the sun, darkness to light
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Those who escape hell however never talk about it and nothing much bothers them after that
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and the color in my eyes has gone back into the sea.
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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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what matters most is how well you walk through the fire
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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
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Don't ever write a novel unless it hurts like a hot turd coming out.
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I went over to see Marina two or three or four times a week. I knew as long as I could see the girl I would be all right…. Soon after, I got a letter from Fay. She and the child were living in a hippie commune in New Mexico. It was a nice place, she said. Marina would be able to breathe there. She enclosed a little drawing the girl had made for me.
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I was an Agnostic. Agnostics didn't have much to argue about.
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I sit here drunk now. I am a series of small victories and large defeats and I am as amazed as any other that I have gotten from there to here without committing murder or being murdered without having ended up in the madhouse. as I drink alone again tonight my soul despite all the past agony thanks all the gods who were not there for me then.
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I'm only interested in poetry.
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I have gotten so used to melancholia that I greet it like an old friend.
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nothing's news. it's the same old thing in disguise. only one thing comes without a disguise and you only see it once, or maybe never. like getting hit by a freight train. makes us realize that all our moaning about long lost girls in gingham dresses is not so important after all.
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As we go on with our lives we tend to forget that the jails and the hospitals and the madhouses and the graveyards are packed.
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I still have a little whiskey left and therefore a chance.
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