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For each Joan of Arc there is a Hitler perched at the other end of the teeter-totter.

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
Totter
Perched
Joan
Arcs
Hitler
Ends
Teeter

More quotes by Charles Bukowski

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That’s when I first learned that it wasn’t enough to just do your job, you had to have an interest in it, even a passion for it.
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Courts are places where the ending is written first and all that precedes is simply vaudeville.
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I'm very clever at hiding poems perhaps more clever than I am at writing them.
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Keep your money in your pocket. Or bet it on a good horse.
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It's better to do a dull thing with style than a dangerous thing without it.
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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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the way to create art is to burn and destroy ordinary concepts and to substitute them with new truths that run down from the top of the head and out of the heart
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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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Don't ever write a novel unless it hurts like a hot turd coming out.
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That's the way it ends. The thin edge of the wedge.
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If there are junk yards in hell, love is the dog that guards the gates.
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Capitalism has survived communism. Now, it eats away at itself.
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the last cigarettes are smoked, the loaves are sliced, and lest this be taken for wry sorrow, drown the spider in wine. you are much more than simply dead: I am a dish for your ashes, I am a fist for your vanished air. the most terrible thing about life is finding it gone.
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that your power of command with simple language was one of the magnificent things of our century. (from the poem: result)
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If you want to know who your friends are, get yourself a jail sentence.
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That was all a man needed: hope. It was lack of hope that discouraged a man.
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Pretty words, as pretty women, wrinkle up and die.
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Bullfighting can be an art Boxing can be an art Loving can be an art Opening a can of sardines can be an art
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in the cupboard sits my bottle like a dwarf waiting to scratch out my prayers. I drink and cough like some idiot at a symphony, sunlight and maddened birds are everywhere, the phone rings gamboling its sound against the odds of the crooked sea I drink deeply and evenly now, I drink to paradise and death and the lie of love.
Charles Bukowski
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and the color in my eyes has gone back into the sea.
Charles Bukowski