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Slavery was never abolished, it was only extended to include all the colors.

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
Colors
Slavery
Color
Never
Abolished
Extended
Include

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I had no Freedom. I had nothing.
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I am aware that a computer can’t create a poem, but neither can a typewriter.
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the people are the biggest horror show on earth, have been for centuries.
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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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Some people like what you do, some people hate what you do, but most people simply don't give a damn.
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well, death says, as he walks by, I'm going to get you anyhow no matter what you've been: writer, cab-driver, pimp, butcher, sky-diver, I'm going to get you
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you are yesterday's bouquet so sadly raided
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It was hard for me to believe. When recess was over I sat in class and thought about it. My mother had a hole and my father had a dong that shot juice. How could they have things like that and walk around as if everything was normal, and talk about things, and then do it and not tell anybody?
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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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I feel strangely normal.
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You can forgive a fool because he only runs in one direction and doesn't deceive anybody. It's the deceivers who make you feel bad.
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I call 'em complaining machines. Things are never right with a guy to them. And man, when you throw that hysteria in there ... forget it. I gotta get out, get in the car, and go. Anywhere. Get a cup of coffee somewhere. Anywhere. Anything but another woman. I guess they're just built different, right?
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I can never drive my car over a bridge without thinking of suicide. I can never look at a lake or an ocean without thinking of suicide.
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there is enough treachery , hatred violence absurdity in the average human being to supply any given army on any given day
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the best often die by their own hand just to get away, and those left behind can never quite understand why anybody would ever want to get away from them
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bad writing's like bad women: there's just not much you can do about it
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Pretty words, as pretty women, wrinkle up and die.
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If there are junk yards in hell, love is the dog that guards the gates.
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Something that never happens anywhere at any time.
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as the shadows assume shapes I fight the slow retreat now my once-promise dwindling dwindling now lighting new cigarettes pouring more drinks it has been a beautiful fight still is.
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