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My flesh looked like it wasn't trying. It looked like it hated being part of me.
Charles Bukowski
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Charles Bukowski
Age: 73 †
Born: 1920
Born: August 16
Died: 1994
Died: March 9
Actor
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Journalist
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Henry Charles Bukowski
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charles bukowski
Hated
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More quotes by Charles Bukowski
As we go on with our lives we tend to forget that the jails and the hospitals and the madhouses and the graveyards are packed.
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Bad poetry is caused by people who sit down and think, Now I am going to write a Poem.
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A spark can set a whole forest on fire. Just a spark. Save it.
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agony sometimes changes form but it never ceases for anybody.
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I was a man who thrived on solitude without it I was like another man without food or water. Each day without solitude weakened me. I took no pride in my solitude but I was dependent on it. The darkness of the room was like sunlight to me.
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If I stop writing I am dead. And that's the only way I'll stop: dead.
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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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It's hot tonight and half the neighborhood is drunk. the other half is dead. if I have any advice about writing poetry it's - don't. I'm going to send out for some fried chicken.
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I've learned to feel good when I feel good. it's better to be driven around in a red porsche than to own one. the luck of the fool is inviolate.
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I am this fiery snail crawling home.
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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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I never understood society. i undersand that it works somehow and that it functions as a reality and that its realities are necessary to keep us from worse realities. but all i sense are that are plenty of police and jails and judges and laws and that what is meant to protect me is breaking me down.
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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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the masses are everywhere they know how to do things: they have sane and deadly angers for sane and deadly things.
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Most people are much better at saying things in letters than in conversation, and some people can write artistic, inventive letters, but when they try a poem or story or novel they become pretentious.
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I never met another man I'd rather be. And even if that's a delusion, it's a lucky one.
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you are yesterday's bouquet so sadly raided
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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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There's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I pour whiskey on him and inhale cigarette smoke and the whores and the bartenders and the grocery clerks never know that he's in there.
Charles Bukowski
I tell you such fine music waits in the shadows of hell.
Charles Bukowski