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We are all museums of fear.
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
Museums
Fear
More quotes by Charles Bukowski
When you clean up a city, you destroy it.
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Let it die. Let there be a new beginning. It’s awful. Goodnight.
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That's your response to everything: drink? No, that's my response to nothing.
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I was beaten down long ago in some alley in another world.
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Alcohol is probably one of the greatest things to arrive upon the earth - alongside of me.
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Sometimes I feel as if we are all trapped in a movie. We know our lines, where to walk, how to act, only there is no camera. Yet, we can't break out of the movie. And it's a bad one.
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Style is the answer to everything. A fresh way to approach a dull or dangerous thing. To do a dull thing with style is preferable to doing a dangerous thing without it. To do a dangerous thing with style is what I call art.
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...having nothing to struggle against they have nothing to struggle for.
Charles Bukowski
the way to create art is to burn and destroy ordinary concepts and to substitute them with new truths that run down from the top of the head and out of the heart
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Long before I became 'rich and famous' I just sat round drinking wine and staring at the walls.
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This incompleteness is all we have.
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mercy, I think, doesn't the human race know anything about mercy?
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In my next life I want to be a cat. To sleep 20 hours a day and wait to be fed. To sit around licking my ass.
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I wish to weep but sorrow is stupid. I wish to believe but belief is a graveyard.
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Find what you love and let it kill you. For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it’s much better to be killed by a lover.
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we sat there smoking cigarettes at 5 in the morning.
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Maybe when I get in the grave, things will be beautiful.
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It was like a church in there as only the truly lost sit in bars on Tuesday mornings at 8:00 a.m.
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you fall into the mirror, come through the other side staring at a lightbulb.
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It was only the matter of a new voice. Nobody listened to an old voice anymore. Old voices became a part of one's self, like a fingernail.
Charles Bukowski
