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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.

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
Would
Alcohol
World
Vain
Lays
Bed
Rest
Drunks
Sleep
Beds
Find
Meanwhile
Trying
Deserving

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Let' em learn or let' em die
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Don’t do it. Don’t love me.
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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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great writers are indecent people they live unfairly saving the best part for paper. good human beings save the world so that bastards like me can keep creating art, become immortal. if you read this after I am dead it means I made it.
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I give you soul. I give you wisdom and light and music and a bit of laughter. Also, I am the world's greatest horseplayer.
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It didn't pay to trust another human being. Humans didn't have it, whatever it took.
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I walk into the kitchen, look at the typer down there on the floor. It's a dirty floor. It's a dirty typer that types dirty stories
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agony sometimes changes form but it never ceases for anybody.
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An early taste of death is not necessarily a bad thing.
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nobody ever finds the one
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I don't carry notebooks and I don't consciously store ideas. I try not to think that I am a writer and I am pretty good at doing that. I don't like writers, but then I don't like insurance salesmen either.
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my 6 foot goddess makes me laugh the laughter of the mutilated who still need love... she has saved me from everything that is not here
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they simply never understand, do they, that sometimes solitude is one of the most beautiful things on earth?
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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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I remember awakening one morning and finding everything smeared with the color of forgotten love.
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WHEN YOU LEAVE YOUR TYPEWRITER YOU LEAVE YOUR MACHINE GUN AND THE RATS COME POURING THROUGH.
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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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And there I was, 225 pounds, perpetually lost and confused, short legs, ape-like upper body, all chest, no neck, head too large, blurred eyes, hair uncombed, 6 feet of geek, waiting for her.
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I wasn’t lonely. I experienced no self-pity. I was just caught up in a life in which I could find no meaning.
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