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and even the trees we walked under seemed less than trees and more like everything else.
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
Like
Walked
Trees
Seemed
Tree
Less
Else
Everything
Even
More quotes by Charles Bukowski
Boring damned people. All over the earth. Propagating more boring damned people. What a horror show. The earth swarmed with them.
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It seems I make a lot of mistakes and it seems that I am not allowed any.
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The worst men have the best jobs the best men have the worst jobs or are unemployed or locked in madhouses.
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If you can only remain pure in your stupidity, someday you may get a phone call from hell.
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I often carry things to read so that I will not have to look at the people.
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Figuring the average poet starts at 16, I am 23.
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it is all ash and dry leaves and grief gone like an ocean liner.
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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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writing about a writer's block is better than not writing at all
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one more creature dizzy with love
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The free soul is rare, but you know it when you see it
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I held her wrists and then I got it through the eyes: hatred, centuries deep and true. I was wrong and graceless and sick. all the things I had learned had been wasted. there was no creature living as foul as I and all my poems were false.
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We're all going to die, all of us, what a circus!
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With me, my main vision for life was to avoid as many people as possible. The less people I saw the better I felt.
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the whole world is caught in her glance and at last the universe is magnificent.
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It was only the matter of a new voice. Nobody listened to an old voice anymore. Old voices became a part of one's self, like a fingernail.
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Never get out of bed before noon.
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the sea is made of blood
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Humanity, you never had it to begin with.
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To me Art (poetry) is a continuous and continuing process and that when a man fails to write good poetry he fails to live fully or well.
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