I stopped looking for a Dream Girl, I just wanted one that wasn't a nightmare.
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Charles Bukowski
Henry Charles Bukowski (born Heinrich Karl Bukowski; August 16, 1920 – March 9, 1994) was a German-born American poet, novelist, and short story writer. His writing was influenced by the social, cultural, and economic ambience of his home city of Los Angeles. His work addresses the ordinary lives of poor Americans, the act of writing, alcohol, relationships with women, and the drudgery of work. Bukowski wrote thousands of poems, hundreds of short stories and six novels, eventually publishing over 60 books. The FBI kept a file on him as a result of his column, Notes of a Dirty Old Man, in the LA underground newspaper Open City. In 1986 Time called Bukowski a "laureate of American lowlife". Regarding Bukowski's enduring popular appeal, Adam Kirsch of The New Yorker wrote, "the secret of Bukowski's appeal. . . [is that] he combines the confessional poet's promise of intimacy with the larger-than-life aplomb of a pulp-fiction hero." 2Life 3Family and early years Charles Bukowski was born as Heinrich Karl Bukowski in Andernach, Germany, to Heinrich (Henry) Bukowski, a German-American in the U.S. army of occupation after World War I who remained in Germany after his army service, and Katharina (née Fett). His paternal grandfather Leonard Bukowski, an ethnic German, had immigrated to America from the German Empire in the 1880
People empty me. I have to get away to refill.
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.
We're all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn't.
I heard an airplane passing overhead. I wished I was on it.
The best thing about the bedroom was the bed. I liked to stay in bed for hours, even during the day with covers pulled up to my chin. It was good in there, nothing ever occurred in there, no people, nothing.
The problem was you had to keep choosing between one evil or another, and no matter what you chose, they sliced a little bit more off you, until there was nothing left. At the age of 25 most people were finished. A whole god-damned nation of assholes driving automobiles, eating, having babies, doing…
It wasn’t my day. My week. My month. My year. My life. God damn it.
It wasn’t my day. My week. My month. My year. My life. God damn it.
It wasn’t my day. My week. My month. My year. My life. God damn it.
I decided to stay in bed until noon. Maybe by then half the world would be dead and it would only be half as hard to take.
If you persisted long enough, the good luck usually came. Most people couldn't wait on the luck, though, so they quit.
Being together is the miracle, being together and caring. Sleeping together, feet touching, legs touching. Being asleep and together.
I am not a snob; it is simply that I am not interested with what most people have to say, or what they want to do — mostly with my time.
did she love you? only as an extension of herself. what else can love be?
To be young is the only religion.
Things get bad for all of us, almost continually, and what we do under the constant stress reveals who/what we are.
What matters most is how well you walk through the fire.
the whole world is caught in her glance and at last the universe is magnificent.
I remember awakening one morning and finding everything smeared with the color of forgotten love.