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Having nothing to struggleagainstthey have nothing to strugglefor.Charles Bukowski
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Beasts bounding through time. Van Gogh writing his brother for paints Hemingway testing his shotgun Celine going broke as a doctor of medicinethe impossibility of being human Villon expelled from Paris for being a thief Faulkner drunk in the gutters of his townthe impossibility of being human Burroughs killing his wife with a gun Mailer stabbing histhe impossibility of being human Maupassant going mad in a rowboat Dostoevsky lined up against a wall to be shot Crane off the back of a boat into the propellerthe impossibility Sylvia with her head in the oven like a baked potato Harry Crosby leaping into that Black SunLorca murdered in the road by the Spanish troopsthe impossibility Artaud sitting on a madhouse bench Chatterton drinking rat poison Shakespeare a plagiarist Beethoven with a horn stuck into his head against deafnessthe impossibility the impossibility Nietzsche gone totally madthe impossibility of being humanall too humanthis breathingin and outout and inthese punksthese cowardsthese championsthese mad dogs of glorymoving this little bit of light towardusimpossibly .Charles Bukowski
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The gods play nofavorites.Charles Bukowski
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The gods seldomgivebut so quicklytake.Charles Bukowski
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She slammed the door andwas gone. I looked at the closed doorand at the doorknoband strangely I didn't feelalone.Charles Bukowski
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The worst thing, " he told me, "is bitterness, people end up sobitter.Charles Bukowski
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As long as there arehuman beings aboutthere is never going to beany peacefor any individualupon this earth (oranywhere elsethey mightescape to).all you can dois maybe grabten lucky minuteshereor maybe an hourthere.somethingis working toward youright now, and I mean youand nobody butyou.Charles Bukowski
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I see a brightportionunder the overhead lightthat shades intodarknessand then into darkerdarknessand I can't see beyond that.Charles Bukowski
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I believe that to be the world's greatest livingwriterthere must be somethingterribly wrong with you. I don't even want to be the world's greatestdead writer.just being dead would be fairenough.Charles Bukowski
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I paid, got up, walkedto the door, openedit. I heard the mansay, "that guy'snuts."out on the street Iwalked northfeelingcuriouslyhonored.Charles Bukowski
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The best part waspulling down theshadesstuffing the doorbellwith ragsputting the phonein therefrigeratorand going to bedfor 3 or 4days. and the next bestpartwasnobody evermissedme.Charles Bukowski
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Sometimes when everything seems atits worstwhen all conspiresand gnawsand the hours, days, weeksyearsseem wasted — stretched there upon my bedin the darklooking upward at the ceilingi get what many will consider anobnoxious thought:it’s still nice to be Bukowski.Charles Bukowski
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I remember yoursaying: "make itor break it."neither happened anditwon't.Charles Bukowski
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It got so bad that Al thoughtmaybe it washimso he went to a shrinkand askedand the shrink said, "you're one of the sanest men I've ever met."poor Al.that made him feelworse than ever.Charles Bukowski
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I love you butdon't know what todo.Charles Bukowski
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The courage it took to get out of bed eachmorningto face the same thingsover and overwasenormous.Charles Bukowski
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It does seemthe more we drinkthe better the wordsgo.Charles Bukowski
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I feel no grief for being called somethingwhich I am not;in fact, it's enthralling, somehow, like a goodback rubCharles Bukowski
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It is so dark now with the sadness ofpeoplethey were tricked, they were taught to expect theultimate when nothing ispromisednow young girls weep alone in small roomsold men angrily swing their canes atvisions asladies comb their hair asants search for survivalhistory surrounds usand our livesslink awayinshame.Charles Bukowski
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We are burning like a chicken wing left on the grill of an outdoor barbecuewe are unwanted and burning we are burning and unwanted we arean unwantedburningas we sizzle and fryto the bonethe coals of Dante's 'Inferno' spit and sputter beneathus andabove the sky is an open hand andthe words of wise men are uselessit's not a nice world, a nice world it's not ...Charles Bukowski