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Style means no shield at all. Style means no front at all. Style means ultimate naturalness. Style means one man alone with billions of men about.

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
Mean
Shields
Men
Billions
Fronts
Front
Ultimate
Style
Alone
Naturalness
Means
Shield

More quotes by Charles Bukowski

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and love was lightning and remembrance
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eleven months. now she's gone gone as they go.
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Sex can sometimes become the most horrible of tasks.
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my greatest problem was stamps, envelopes, paper and wine, with the world on the edge of World War II.
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morning night and noon the traffic moves through and the murder and treachery of friends and lovers and all the people move through you. pain is the joy of knowing the unkindest truth that arrives without warning. life is being alone death is being alone. even the fools weep morning night and noon.
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I kept telling myself that all the women in the world weren´t whores, just mine.
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If you want to create, you'll create.
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Never bring a lot of money to where a poor man lives. He can only lose what little he has. On the other hand it is mathematically possible that he might win whatever you bring with you. What you must do, with money and the poor, is never let them get too close to one another.
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nothing can save you except writing. it keeps the walls from failing.
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Do you hate people? I don't hate them...I just feel better when they're not around.
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It’s so easy to be easy—if you let it.
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A spark can set a whole forest on fire. Just a spark. Save it.
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Modern women ... they don't sew your pockets ... forget that.
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Each man's hell is in a different place: mine is just up and behind my ruined face.
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He asked, what makes a man a writer? well, I said, it's simple, it's either you get it down on paper or you jump off a bridge. writers are desperate people and when they stop being desperate they stop being writers. are you desperate? I don't know.
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The pest, in a sense, is a very superior being to us: he knows where to find us and how--usually in the bath or in sexual intercourse or asleep.
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What good are you? What can you do? It has cost me a thousands of dollars to raise you, feed you, clothe you! Suppose I left you here on the street? Then what would you do? Catch butterflies
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sometimes I hate you, she said.
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love be damned now as love was damned when it first arrived.
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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.
Charles Bukowski