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But my whole life has been a matter of fighting for one simple hour to do what I want to do. There was always something getting in the way of my getting to myself.

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
Something
Way
Hour
Always
Getting
Life
Hours
Fighting
Simple
Matter
Whole

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If you can only remain pure in your stupidity, someday you may get a phone call from hell.
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there is always one woman to save you from another and as that woman saves you she makes ready to destroy
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I call 'em complaining machines. Things are never right with a guy to them. And man, when you throw that hysteria in there ... forget it. I gotta get out, get in the car, and go. Anywhere. Get a cup of coffee somewhere. Anywhere. Anything but another woman. I guess they're just built different, right?
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Most people's deaths are a sham. There's nothing left to die.
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Homosexuals are delicate and bad poetry is delicate and [Allen] Ginsberg turned the tables by making homosexual poetry strong poetry, almost manly poetry but in the long run, the homo will remain the homo and not the poet.
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she knew what she wanted and it wasn't / me. / I know more women like that than any / other kind.
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How are his poems? He's not as good as he thinks he is, but then most of us feel that way.
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Even the stove and the refrigerator looked human, I mean good human - they seemed to have arms and voices and they said, hang around, kid, it's good here, it can be very good here.
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What were you going to do tonight? I was going to listen to the songs of Rachmaninoff. Who's that? A dead Russian.
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Do some living and get yourself a typewriter.
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If you want to know who your friends are, get yourself a jail sentence.
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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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The writer has no responsibility other than to jack off in bed alone and write a good page.
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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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you are yesterday's bouquet so sadly raided
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It’s never quite right, all the things we are taught, all the loves we chase, all the deaths we die, all the lives we live.
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Love is a form of prejudice. I have too many other prejudices.
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They were beautiful nothings
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… and we are in bed together laughing and we don’t care about anything.
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I was beaten down long ago in some alley in another world.
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