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Baby, I said. I'm a genius but nobody knows it but me.

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
Genius
Baby
Nobody

More quotes by Charles Bukowski

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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 you're going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don't even start.
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human relationships simply aren't durable. I think back to the women in my life. they seem non-existent.
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They were beautiful nothings
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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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I felt I had to win. It seemed very important. I didn't know why it was important and I kept thinking, why do I think this is so important? And another part of me answered, just because it is.
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Find what you love and let it kill you. For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it’s much better to be killed by a lover.
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There would never be a way for me to live comfortably with people. Maybe I'd become a monk. I'd pretend to believe in God and live in a cubicle, play an organ and stay drunk on wine.
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When Ginsburg is at the top of his game you might as well put down your toys and listen.
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Courts are places where the ending is written first and all that precedes is simply vaudeville.
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Each man's hell is in a different place: mine is just up and behind my ruined face.
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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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There's nothing unusual about love.
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Morals were restrictive, but they were grounded on human experience.
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the beautiful are found in the edge of a room crumpled into spiders and needles and silence and we can never understand why they left,they were so beautiful. they dont make it, the beautiful die young and leave the ugly to their ugly lives.
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It was like a church in there as only the truly lost sit in bars on Tuesday mornings at 8:00 a.m.
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I have loved you woman as surely as I have named you rust and sand and nylon.
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and even the trees we walked under seemed less than trees and more like everything else.
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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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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.
Charles Bukowski