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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
Sunlight
Beer
Loves
Forgotten
Small
Women
Men

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what matters most is how well you walk through the fire
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They, all of them, seemed to put literary form in front of the actuality and living of life itself.
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Sometimes I get too exhausted to even feel bad
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The human heart, as of course we all know is essentially good
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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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There's nothing unusual about love.
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Each person is only given so many evenings and each wasted evening is a gross violation against the natural course of your only life.
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some men never die and some men never live but we're all alive tonight.
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I'll use the knives for spreading jam, and the gas to warm my greying love.
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I was fairly poor but most of my money went for wine and classical music. I loved to mix the two together.
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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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The public takes from a writer, or a writing, what it needs and lets the remainder go. but what they take is usually what they need least and what they let go is what they need most.
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I just want a hot cup of coffee,black,and I don’t want to hear about your troubles.
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I wasn’t going anywhere and neither was the rest of the world. We were all just hanging around waiting to die and meanwhile doing little things to fill the space. Some of use weren’t even doing little things. We were vegetables.
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some moments are nice, some are nicer, some are even worth writing about.
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the tired sunsets and the tired people - it takes a lifetime to die and no time at all.
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First paycheck I get, I thought, I'm going to get myself a room near the downtown L.A. Public Library.
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Pain is strange. A cat killing a bird, a car accident, a fire.... Pain arrives, BANG, and there it is, it sits on you. It's real. And to anybody watching, you look foolish. Like you've suddenly become an idiot. There's no cure for it unless you know somebody who understands how you feel, and knows how to help.
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I see men assassinated around me every day. I walk through rooms of the dead, streets of the dead, cities of the dead men without eyes, men without voices men with manufactured feelings and standard reactions men with newspaper brains, television souls and high school ideas.
Charles Bukowski
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Don't ever write a novel unless it hurts like a hot turd coming out.
Charles Bukowski