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The trouble with these people is that their cities have never been bombed and their mothers have never been told to shut up.

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
People
Bombed
Mothers
Shut
Cities
Told
Trouble
Mother
Never

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I never write in the daytime. It's like running through the shopping mall with your clothes off. Everybody can see you. At night ... that's when you pull the tricks ... magic.
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We waste days like mad blackbirds and pray for alcoholic nightsour silk-sick human smiles wrap around us like somebody else's confetti
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A man needed somebody. There wasn't anybody around, so you had to make up somebody, make him up to be like a man should be. It wasn't make-believe or cheating. The other way was make-believe and cheating: living your life without a man like him around.
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But she projected vitality - you knew that she was there.
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I have two rules. One is, never trust a man who smokes a pipe. The other is, never trust a man with shiny shoes.
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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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I have loved you woman as surely as I have named you rust and sand and nylon.
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There is only one place to write and that is alone at a typewriter. The writer who has to go into the streets is a writer who does not know the streets. . . when you leave your typewriter you leave your machine gun and the rats come pouring through.
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mercy, I think, doesn't the human race know anything about mercy?
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Most of the world was mad. And the part that wasn't mad was angry. And the part that wasn't mad or angry was just stupid. I had no chance. I had no choice. Just hang on and wait for the end. It was hard work. It was the hardest work imaginable.
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You can steal my women but don't play with my whiskey.
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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.
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I had no Freedom. I had nothing.
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In a capitalistic society the losers slaved for the winners and you have to have more losers than winners.
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You just rebel against everything. How are you going to survive? I don't know. I'm already tired.
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and love is a word used too much and much too soon.
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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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The secret is writing down one simple line after another.
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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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All a guy needed was a chance. Somebody was alway controlling who got a chance and who didn't.
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