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If you let them kill you, they will

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
Kill

More quotes by Charles Bukowski

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There is nothing that teaches you more than regrouping after failure and moving on.
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I have no time for things that have no soul.
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I write right off the typer. I call it my machinegun. I hit it hard, usually late at night while drinking wine and listening to classical music on the radio and smoking mangalore ganesh beedies.
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If you want to create, you'll create.
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I don't carry notebooks and I don't consciously store ideas. I try not to think that I am a writer and I am pretty good at doing that. I don't like writers, but then I don't like insurance salesmen either.
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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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There still might be a place for us somewhere.
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agony sometimes changes form but it never ceases for anybody.
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I was a man who thrived on solitude without it I was like another man without food or water. Each day without solitude weakened me. I took no pride in my solitude but I was dependent on it. The darkness of the room was like sunlight to me.
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don't be ashamed of anything I guess God meant it all like locks on doors.
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The wisest thing to do if you’re living in hell is to make yourself comfortable.
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Those who preach god, need god Those who preach peace do not have peace Those who preach love do not have love
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I am a dolt of a man, easily made happy or even stupidly happy almost without cause and left alone I am mostly content.
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sometimes I hate you, she said.
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The secret is writing down one simple line after another.
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stay with the beer. beer is continuous blood. a continuous lover.
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Bad poetry is caused by people who sit down and think, Now I am going to write a Poem.
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there must be a way. surely there must be a way that we have not yet thought of. who put this brain inside of me? it cries it demands it says that there is a chance. it will not say no.
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I feel no grief for being called something which I am not in fact, it's enthralling, somehow, like a good back rub
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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