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i was born to hustle roses down the avenue of the dead.
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
Avenue
Hustle
Avenues
Roses
Rose
Dead
Born
More quotes by Charles Bukowski
They were beautiful nothings
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Once a woman turns against you, forget it. They can love you, then something turns in them. They can watch you dying in a gutter, run over by a car, and they'll spit on you.
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Meanwhile the 3 a.m. drunks of the world would lay in their beds, trying in vain to sleep, and deserving that rest, if they could find it.
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For each Joan of Arc there is a Hitler perched at the other end of the teeter-totter.
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there must be a way. surely there must be a way that we have not yet thought of. who put this brain inside of me? it cries it demands it says that there is a chance. it will not say no.
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there's no clarity. there was never meant to be clarity.
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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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I'm very clever at hiding poems perhaps more clever than I am at writing them.
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Courts are places where the ending is written first and all that precedes is simply vaudeville.
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Finally there is nothing here for death to take away.
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I tell you such fine music waits in the shadows of hell.
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If you're going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don't even start.
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some moments are nice, some are nicer, some are even worth writing about.
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It’s not so much that nothing means anything but more that it keeps meaning nothing. there’s no release, just gurus and self- appointed gods and hucksters. the more people say, the less there is to say. even the best books are dry sawdust.
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The ladies usually go for the biggest damn fool they can find that is why the human race stands where it does today: we have bred the clever and lasting Casanovas, all hollow inside, like the chocolate Easter bunnies we foster upon our poor children.
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and love was lightning and remembrance
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It is possible to be truly mad and to still exist upon scraps of life.
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There's a small balcony here, the door is open and I can see the lights of the cars on the Harbor Freeway south, they never stop, that roll of lights, on and on. All those people. What are they doing? What are they thinking? We're all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn't.
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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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You don't go on probably when love and guns are in hand.
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