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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
Buk
charles bukowski
Burning
Hell
Like
People

More quotes by Charles Bukowski

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Most people's deaths are a sham. There's nothing left to die.
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Sexual intercourse is kicking death in the ass while singing.
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Some men hope for revolution but when you revolt and set up your new government you find your new government is still the same old Papa, he has only put on a cardboard mask.
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I'm very clever at hiding poems perhaps more clever than I am at writing them.
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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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It was only the matter of a new voice. Nobody listened to an old voice anymore. Old voices became a part of one's self, like a fingernail.
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some moments are nice, some are nicer, some are even worth writing about.
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you fall into the mirror, come through the other side staring at a lightbulb.
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there's no clarity. there was never meant to be clarity.
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my mother, poor fish, wanting to be happy, beaten two or three times a week, telling me to be happy: Henry, smile! why don't you ever smile? and then she would smile, to show me how, and it was the saddest smile I ever saw
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Food is good for the nerves and the spirit. Courage comes from the belly – all else is desperation.
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I met a genius on the train today about 6 years old, he sat beside me and as the train ran down along the coast we came to the ocean and then he looked at me and said, it’s not pretty.
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and even the trees we walked under seemed less than trees and more like everything else.
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There is only one place to write and that is alone at a typewriter. The writer who has to go into the streets is a writer who does not know the streets. . . when you leave your typewriter you leave your machine gun and the rats come pouring through.
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one can never be sure whether it's good poetry or bad acid
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They swallow God without thinking, they swallow country without thinking. Soon they forget how to think, they let others think for them.
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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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I can almost understand why people leap from bridges.
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My ambition is handicapped by laziness
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That's your response to everything: drink? No, that's my response to nothing.
Charles Bukowski