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my hands dead my heart dead silence adagio of rocks the world ablaze that's the best for me.
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
Best
Heart
World
Adagio
Ablaze
Rocks
Silence
Dead
Hands
More quotes by Charles Bukowski
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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It didn't pay to trust another human being. Humans didn't have it, whatever it took.
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what matters most is how well you walk through the fire
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the tigers have found me and I do not care.
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I feel no grief for being called something which I am not in fact, it's enthralling, somehow, like a good back rub
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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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If I never see you again I will always carry you inside outside on my fingertips and at brain edges and in centers centers of what I am of what remains.
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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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Trouble and pain were what kept a man alive. Or trying to avoid trouble and pain. It was a full time job.
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There's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I'm too tough for him, I say, stay in there, I'm not going to let anybody see you.
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Once a woman turns against you, forget it. They can love you, then something turns in them. They can watch you dying in a gutter, run over by a car, and they'll spit on you.
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Fay had a spot of blood on the left side of her mouth and I took a wet cloth and wiped it off. Women were meant to suffer no wonder they asked for constant declarations of love.
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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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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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The trouble with these people is that their cities have never been bombed and their mothers have never been told to shut up.
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I had no feeling for the things so many others needed.
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I was beaten down long ago in some alley in another world.
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How are his poems? He's not as good as he thinks he is, but then most of us feel that way.
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The world is full of boring, identical and mindless people.
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Most people's deaths are a sham. There's nothing left to die.
Charles Bukowski
