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

More quotes by Charles Bukowski

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They laughed. Things were funny. They weren't afraid to care. There was no sense to life, to the structure of things.
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I drive around the streets an inch away from weeping, ashamed of my sentimentality and possible love.
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It's not the large things that send a man to the madhouse... no, it's the continuing series of small tragedies... not the death of his love but the shoelace that snaps with no time left.
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My dear, Find what you love and let it kill you. Let it drain you of your all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness. Let it kill you and let it devour your remains. For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it’s much better to be killed by a lover. ~ Falsely yours
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if you think they didn't go crazy in tiny rooms just like you're doing now without women without food without hope then you're not ready.
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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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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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I had decided against religion a couple of years back. If it were true, it made fools out of people, or it drew fools. And if it weren't true, the fools were all the more foolish. What I need is a good doctor, I thought. You either lived or died.
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There's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I'm too tough for him, I say, stay in there, I'm not going to let anybody see you.
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there are policemen in the street and angels in the clouds
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...in that drunken place you would like to hand your heart to her and say touch it but then give it back.
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If I hadn't been a drunkard, I probably would have committed suicide long ago.
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He asked, What makes a man a writer? Well, I said, it's simple. You either get it down on paper, or jump off a bridge.
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The pest, in a sense, is a very superior being to us: he knows where to find us and how--usually in the bath or in sexual intercourse or asleep.
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Too often the people complain that they have done nothing with their lives and then they wait for somebody to tell them that this isn't so.
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I still have a little whiskey left and therefore a chance.
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Basically, that's why I wrote: to save my ass, to save my ass from the madhouse, from the streets, from myself.
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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 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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morning night and noon the traffic moves through and the murder and treachery of friends and lovers and all the people move through you. pain is the joy of knowing the unkindest truth that arrives without warning. life is being alone death is being alone. even the fools weep morning night and noon.
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