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The writer has no responsibility other than to jack off in bed alone and write a good page.
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
Pages
Writer
Responsibility
Alone
Write
Writing
Jack
Good
Page
Bed
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there are policemen in the street and angels in the clouds
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Never envy a man his lady. Behind it all lays a living hell.
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To create art means to be crazy alone forever.
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There is nothing as boring as the truth.
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hate contains truth. beauty is a facade.
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People in love often become edgy, dangerous. They lose their sense of perspective.
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I hope that death contains less than this.
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agony sometimes changes form but it never ceases for anybody.
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we know God is dead, they've told us, but listening to you I wasn't sure.
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The public takes from a writer, or a writing, what it needs and lets the remainder go. but what they take is usually what they need least and what they let go is what they need most.
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I still have a little whiskey left and therefore a chance.
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The difference between a brave man and a coward is a coward thinks twice before jumping in the cage with a lion. The brave man doesn't know what a lion is. He just thinks he does.
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I wasn’t going anywhere and neither was the rest of the world. We were all just hanging around waiting to die and meanwhile doing little things to fill the space. Some of use weren’t even doing little things. We were vegetables.
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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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she knew what she wanted and it wasn't / me. / I know more women like that than any / other kind.
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and our few good times will be rare because we have the critical sense and are not easy to fool with laughter
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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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I will remember the kisses, our lips raw with love, and how you gave me everything you had and how I offered you what was left of me.
Charles Bukowski
