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We waste days like mad blackbirds and pray for alcoholic nightsour silk-sick human smiles wrap around us like somebody else's confetti

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
Else
Mad
Confetti
Around
Pray
Blackbirds
Human
Praying
Alcoholic
Humans
Bird
Wrap
Like
Waste
Alcoholics
Sick
Wraps
Somebody
Silk
Days
Smiles

More quotes by Charles Bukowski

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It’s so easy to be easy—if you let it.
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It’s never quite right, all the things we are taught, all the loves we chase, all the deaths we die, all the lives we live.
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Love is a form of prejudice. I have too many other prejudices.
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Basically, that's why I wrote: to save my ass, to save my ass from the madhouse, from the streets, from myself.
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There is nothing that teaches you more than regrouping after failure and moving on.
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If I hadn't been a drunkard, I probably would have committed suicide long ago.
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It is possible to be truly mad and to still exist upon scraps of life.
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They laughed. Things were funny. They weren't afraid to care. There was no sense to life, to the structure of things.
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Look, let me put it this way: with me, you’re number one and there isn’t even a number two.
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The wisest thing to do if you’re living in hell is to make yourself comfortable.
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Her one drink had Cecelia giggling and talking and she was explaining that animals had souls too. Nobody challenged her opinion. It was possible, we knew. What we weren't sure of was if we had any.
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I was an Agnostic. Agnostics didn't have much to argue about.
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I'm going, she said. I love you but you're crazy, you're doomed.
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…He was always high on drugs. I was not a drug man, but in case I wanted to hide from myself for a few days, I knew I could get anything I wanted from him.
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the way to create art is to burn and destroy ordinary concepts and to substitute them with new truths that run down from the top of the head and out of the heart
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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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It's just that the grape has me down.
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in the cupboard sits my bottle like a dwarf waiting to scratch out my prayers. I drink and cough like some idiot at a symphony, sunlight and maddened birds are everywhere, the phone rings gamboling its sound against the odds of the crooked sea I drink deeply and evenly now, I drink to paradise and death and the lie of love.
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I'll use the knives for spreading jam, and the gas to warm my greying love.
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We're all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn't. We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing.
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