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
law vaudeville firsts
Courts are places where the ending is written first and all that precedes is simply vaudeville.
running writing night
I never write in the daytime. It's like running through the shopping mall with your clothes off. Everybody can see you. At night ... that's when you pull the tricks ... magic.
lions revolution enough
True revolution comes from true revulsion; when things get bad enough the kitten will kill the lion.
beautiful crazy mean
Oh, I don’t mean you’re handsome, not the way people think of handsome. Your face seems kind. But your eyes - they’re beautiful. They’re wild, crazy, like some animal peering out of a forest on fire.
men names found
I've found out why men sign their names to their works- not that they created them but more than the others did not.
lines beggar
Writers are nothing but beggars with a good line.
simple men bridges
he asked, "what makes a man a writer?" "well," I said, "it's simple, it's either you get it down on paper or you jump off a bridge. writers are desperate people and when they stop being desperate they stop being writers." "are you desperate?" "I don't know...
writing said tenderness
Your writing", she said to me, "it's so raw. It's like a sledgehammer, and yet it has humor and tenderness. . . .
fall eye mirrors
I sit on the couch watching her arrange her long red hair before my bedroom mirror. she pulls her hair up and piles it on top of her head- she lets her eyes look at my eyes- then she drops her hair and lets it fall down in front of her face. we go to bed and I hold her speechlessly from the back my arm around her neck I touch her wrists and hands feel up to her elbows no further.
suicide way drink
One more drink and you're dead. This is no way to talk to a suicide head.
typewriters chaos sickness
take a writer away from his typewriter and all you have left is the sickness which started him typing in the beginning
mad sick bird
We waste days like mad blackbirds and pray for alcoholic nightsour silk-sick human smiles wrap around us like somebody else's confetti
lying fire mad
"she’ mad but she’ magic. there’ no lie in her fire.
book mean self
It’s not so much that nothing means anything but more that it keeps meaning nothing. there’s no release, just gurus and self- appointed gods and hucksters. the more people say, the less there is to say. even the best books are dry sawdust.