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I am not like other people. I am burning in hell. The hell of myself.

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
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charles bukowski
People
Burning
Hell
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It was like a church in there as only the truly lost sit in bars on Tuesday mornings at 8:00 a.m.
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there's no clarity. there was never meant to be clarity.
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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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Sexual intercourse is kicking death in the ass while singing.
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That was all a man needed: hope. It was lack of hope that discouraged a man.
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I wish to weep but sorrow is stupid. I wish to believe but belief is a graveyard.
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I hope that death contains less than this.
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You don't go on probably when love and guns are in hand.
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Humanity, you never had it to begin with.
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My dear, Find what you love and let it kill you. Let it drain you of your all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness. Let it kill you and let it devour your remains. For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it’s much better to be killed by a lover. ~ Falsely yours
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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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there is always one woman to save you from another and as that woman saves you she makes ready to destroy
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Lighting new cigarettes, pouring more drinks. It has been a beautiful fight. Still is.
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There's nothing to mourn about death any more than there is to mourn about the growing of a flower. What is terrible is not death but the lives people live or don't live up until their death.
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dogs and angels are not very far apart
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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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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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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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When a hot woman meets a hermit one of them is going to change.
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I was laying in bed one night and I thought 'I'll just quit - to hell with it.' And another little voice inside me said 'Don't quit - save that tiny little ember of spark.' And never give them that spark because as long as you have that spark, you can start the greatest fire again.
Charles Bukowski