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Each man's hell is in a different place: mine is just up and behind my ruined face.

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
Men
Mine
Behinds
Behind
Hell
Face
Faces
Place
Ruined
Different
Mines

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The world is full of boring, identical and mindless people.
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Not everybody thought they could be a dentist or an automobile mechanic but everybody knew they could be a writer.
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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
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We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us.
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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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Find what you love and let it kill you.
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i was born to hustle roses down the avenue of the dead.
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The Artist, an ancient sage had once said, is always sitting on the doorsteps of the rich.
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I don't know if this is true to you but for me sometimes it gets so bad that anything else say like looking at a bird on an overhead power line seems as great as a Beethoven symphony. then you forget it and you're back again.
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He asked, What makes a man a writer? Well, I said, it's simple. You either get it down on paper, or jump off a bridge.
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I didn't have any friends at school, didn't want any. I felt better being alone. I sat on a bench and watched the others play and they looked foolish to me.
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I often stood in front of the mirror alone, wondering how ugly a person could get.
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all that I know is that I believe in the sound of music and the running of a horse. all else is squabble.
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True revolution comes from true revulsion when things get bad enough the kitten will kill the lion.
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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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The male, for all his bravado and exploration, is the loyal one, the one who generally feels love. The female is skilled at betrayal and torture and damnation.
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So, that’s what they wanted: lies. Beautiful lies. That’s what they needed. People were fools. It was going to be easy for me.
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I went over to see Marina two or three or four times a week. I knew as long as I could see the girl I would be all right…. Soon after, I got a letter from Fay. She and the child were living in a hippie commune in New Mexico. It was a nice place, she said. Marina would be able to breathe there. She enclosed a little drawing the girl had made for me.
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I could read the great books but the great books don't interest me.
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I hope that death contains less than this.
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