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In my next life I want to be a cat. To sleep 20 hours a day and wait to be fed. To sit around licking my ass.
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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Autobiographer
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Diarist
Journalist
Novelist
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Henry Charles Bukowski
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charles bukowski
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More quotes by Charles Bukowski
Our disappointment sits between us.
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Long ago, among other lies they were taught that silence was bravery.
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For each Joan of Arc there is a Hitler perched at the other end of the teeter-totter.
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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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we know God is dead, they've told us, but listening to you I wasn't sure.
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The secret is writing down one simple line after another.
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Why do we embroider everything we say with special emphasis when all we really need to do is simply say what needs to he said? Of course the fact is that there is very little that needs to be said.
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Bullfighting can be an art Boxing can be an art Loving can be an art Opening a can of sardines can be an art
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There is nothing as boring as the truth.
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It's not the large things that send a man to the madhouse... no, it's the continuing series of small tragedies... not the death of his love but the shoelace that snaps with no time left.
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i dunno, i said, but i have an idea that people who don't think too much tend to look younger longer
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Cautiously, I allowed myself to feel good at times. I found moments of peace in cheap rooms just staring at the knobs of some dresser or listening to the rain in the dark. The less I needed the better I felt.
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I tell you such fine music waits in the shadows of hell.
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There still might be a place for us somewhere.
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True revolution comes from true revulsion when things get bad enough the kitten will kill the lion.
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Lighting new cigarettes, pouring more drinks. It has been a beautiful fight. Still is.
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Sex can sometimes become the most horrible of tasks.
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They looked as if nothing had ever touched them--all well-mothered, protected, with a soft sheen of contentment. None of them had ever been in jail, or worked hard with their hands, or even gotten a traffic ticket. Skimmed-milk jollies, the whole bunch.
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But then if you lied to a man about his talent just because he was sitting across from you, that was the most unforgivable lie of them all, because that was telling him to go on, to continue which was the worst way for a man without real talent to waste his life, finally. But many people did just that, friends and relatives mostly.
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But my whole life has been a matter of fighting for one simple hour to do what I want to do. There was always something getting in the way of my getting to myself.
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