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take a writer away from his typewriter and all you have left is the sickness which started him typing in the beginning

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
Writer
Started
Left
Typing
Away
Typewriter
Take
Typewriters
Sickness
Chaos
Beginning

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That the young rich smell the stink of the poor and learn to find it a bit amusing. They had to laugh, otherwise it would be too terrifying.
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They swallow God without thinking, they swallow country without thinking. Soon they forget how to think, they let others think for them.
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I guess the only time most people think about injustice is when it happens to them.
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It's 4:30 in the morning, it's always 4:30 in the morning.
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Show me a man who lives alone and has a perpetually clean kitchen, and 8 times out of 9 I'll show you a man with detestable spiritual qualities.
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There's nothing unusual about love.
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Your parents don't give you much love, do they?' 'I don't need that stuff,' I told her. 'Henry, everybody needs love.' 'I don't need anything.' 'You poor boy.
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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.
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being alone never felt right. sometimes it felt good, but it never felt right.
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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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we only asked for leopards to guard our thinning dreams.
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The ladies usually go for the biggest damn fool they can find that is why the human race stands where it does today: we have bred the clever and lasting Casanovas, all hollow inside, like the chocolate Easter bunnies we foster upon our poor children.
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There's no way I can stop writing, it's a form of insanity.
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we drove on and on, past little villages and both good things and bad things were happening to the people in those villages too, but I still was nothing but arms and ears and eyes and maybe there'd be either some good luck for me or more death tomorrow.
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mercy, I think, doesn't the human race know anything about mercy?
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There still might be a place for us somewhere.
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People do too much. They say too much.
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I don’t understand people, never will. It looks like I got to travel pretty much alone.
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I am not like other people. I am burning in hell. The hell of myself.
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But she projected vitality - you knew that she was there.
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