Charles Bukowski Quotes
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I have no definite talent or trade, and how I stay alive is largely a matter of magic.
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there's a bluebird in my heart thatwants to get outbut I'm too tough for him,I say, stay in there, I'm not goingto let anybody see you....I only let him outat night sometimeswhen everybody's asleep....he's singing a littlein there, I haven't quite let himdie...and it's nice enough tomake a manweep, but I don'tweep,doyou?
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there were these peopleon the ground,they were reaching up theirarms and trying to pull medownbutthey couldn't doit.I felt like pissing onthem.they were sojealous.all they had to do wasto work their wayslowly up to itas I haddone.such people thinksuccess grows ontrees.you and I,we knowbetter.
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Sometimes I felt that I didn’t even know who I was. All right, I’m Nicky Belane. But check this. Somebody could yell out, ‘Hey, Harry! Harry Martel!’ and I’d most likely answer, ‘Yeah, what is it?’ I mean, I could be anybody, what does it matter?
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An intellectual says a simple thing in a hard way. An artist says a hard thing in a simple way.
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In my work, as a writer, I only photograph, in words, what I see.
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'People don't need love. What they need is success in one form or another. It can be love but it needn't be.'
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It's possible to love a human being if you don't know them too well.
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You begin saving the world by saving one man at a time; all else is grandiose romanticism or politics.
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'I've given you my time. It's all I've got to give - it's all any man has. And for a pitiful buck and a quarter an hour.'... 'my time so that you can live in your big house on the hill and have all the things that go with it. If anybody has lost anything on this deal, on this arrangement... I've been the loser.
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If I'm an ass, I should say so. If I don't, somebody else will. If I say it first, that disarms them.
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Something was always after a man. It never relented. No rest, ever.
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Show me a man who lives alone and has a perpetually clean kitchen, and 8 times out of 9 I'll show you a man with detestable spiritual qualities.
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Those who have been writing literature have not been writing life.
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When I say that basically writing is a hard hustle, I don't mean that it is a bad life, if one can get away with it. It's the miracle of miracles to make a living by the typer.
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'Fay had a spot of blood on the left side of her mouth and I took a wet cloth and wiped it off. Women were meant to suffer; no wonder they asked for constant declarations of love.'
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We're all going to die, all of us; what a circus! That alone should make us love each other, but it doesn't. We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities. We are eaten up by nothing.
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I kept writing not because I felt I was so good, but because I felt they were so bad, including Shakespeare, all those. The stilted formalism, like chewing cardboard.
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I thought about taking a shower but I could see the headlines: MAILMAN CAUGHT DRINKING THE BLOOD OF GOD AND TAKING A SHOWER, NAKED, IN A ROMAN CATHOLIC CHURCH. ...I found out later that mail for the church was delivered to the parish house around the corner. But now, of course, I knew where to... shower when I'm down and out.
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Much publishing is done through politics, friends, and natural stupidity.
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When everything works best, it's not because you chose writing but because writing chose you. It's when you're mad with it, it's when it's stuffed in your ears, your nostrils, under your fingernails. It's when there's no hope but that.
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I used to live on one candy bar a day - it cost a nickel. I always remember the candy bar was called Payday. That was my payday. And that candy bar tasted so good, at night I would take one bite, and it was so beautiful.
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I have not worked out my poems with a careful will, falling rather on haphazard and blind formulation of wordage, a more flowing concept, in a hope for a more new and lively path. I do personalize at times, but this only for the grace and elan of the dance.
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Human relationships didn't work anyhow. Only the first two weeks had any zing, then the participants lost their interest. Masks dropped away and real people began to appear: cranks, imbeciles, the demented, the vengeful, sadists, killers. Modern society had created its own kind and they feasted on each other. It was a duel to the death-in a cesspool.