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I am for the small man who has not forgotten, for the man who loves his beer and his women and his sunlight
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
Small
Women
Men
Sunlight
Beer
Loves
Forgotten
More quotes by Charles Bukowski
I was only photographing in words the reality of it all.
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I don't know about other people, but when I wake up in the morning and put my shoes on, I think, Jesus Christ, now what?
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Our disappointment sits between us.
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great writers are indecent people they live unfairly saving the best part for paper. good human beings save the world so that bastards like me can keep creating art, become immortal. if you read this after I am dead it means I made it.
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There's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I'm too tough for him, I say, stay in there, I'm not going to let anybody see you.
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Never get out of bed before noon.
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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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People just weren't interesting. Maybe they weren't supposed to be. But animals, birds, even insects were. I couldn't understand it.
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You have to die a few times before you can really live.
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hate contains truth. beauty is a facade.
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It's better to do a dull thing with style than a dangerous thing without it.
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You were destroyed by what you befriended.
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we sat there smoking cigarettes at 5 in the morning.
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There is nothing that teaches you more than regrouping after failure and moving on.
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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
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Modern women ... they don't sew your pockets ... forget that.
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I was young I was so young it hurt like a knife inside because there was no alternative except to hide as long as possible--- not in self-pity but with dismay at my limited chance: trying to connect.
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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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there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average human being to supply any given army on any given day and the best at murder are those who preach against it and the best at hate are those who preach love and the best at war finally are those who preach peace
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the writing of some men is like a vast bridge that carries you over the many things that claw and tear. The Wine of Forever
Charles Bukowski