Charles Bukowski
Charles Bukowski
Henry Charles Bukowskiwas an American poet, novelist, and short story writer...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth16 August 1920
CityAndernach, Germany
CountryUnited States of America
eye looks cures
Her eyes always had a frantic, lost look. He could never cure her eyes of that.
sleep
too often, the only escape is sleep
jobs passion firsts
That’s when I first learned that it wasn’t enough to just do your job, you had to have an interest in it, even a passion for it.
heart want chaos
There's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out.
wall heart fighting
I was fighting a small fight of my own which wasn't leading anywhere-but like a man with a bent spoon trying to dig through a cement wall I knew that a small fight was better than quitting: it kept the heart alive.
taste bad-things
An early taste of death is not necessarily a bad thing.
strong
We are hardly ever as strong as that which we create.
art writing mean
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.
new-york luck old-new-york
In New York you've got to have all the luck.
jobs writing men
There were always men looking for jobs in America. There were always all these usable bodies. And I wanted to be a writer. Almost everybody was a writer. Not everybody thought they could be a dentist or an automobile mechanic but everybody knew they could be a writer. Of those fifty guys in the room, probably fifteen of them thought they were writers. Almost everybody used words and could write them down, i.e., almost everybody could be a writer. But most men, fortunately, aren't writers, or even cab drivers, and some men - many men - unfortunately aren't anything.
people left dies
Most people's deaths are a sham. There's nothing left to die.
sunday people bombs
Sundays kill more people than bombs.
acid good-poetry
one can never be sure whether it's good poetry or bad acid
art drinking writing
I remembered my New Orleans days, living on two five-cent candy bars a day for weeks at a time in order to have leisure to write. But starvation, unfortunately, didn't improve art. It only hindered it. A man's soul was rooted in his stomach. A man could write much better after eating a porterhouse steak and drinking a pint of whiskey than he could ever write after eating a nickel candy bar. The myth of the starving artist was a hoax.