“the worst thing," he told me, "is bitterness, people end up so bitter.” — Charles Bukowski Copy Share Image
“death arrived on schedule on a Sunday afternoon, and, as always, it was easier than we thought it would be.” — Charles Bukowski Copy Share Image
There's nothing to mourn about death any more than there is to mourn about the growing of a flower. What is terrible… — Charles Bukowski Copy Share Image
“It was wintertime. I was starving to death trying to be a writer in New York. I hadn't eaten for three or… — Charles Bukowski Copy Share Image
I carry death in my left pocket. Sometimes I take it out and talk to it: "Hello, baby, how you doing? When… — Charles Bukowski Copy Share Image
“Think of being 80 and fucking a 18 yeard old girl. If there was any way to cheat the game of death,… — Charles Bukowski Copy Share Image
“and I can still write a poem (sometimes), don’t forget that, and even if they don’t pay off, it’s better than waiting… — Charles Bukowski Copy Share Image
And don't forget: time is meant to be wasted, love fails and death is useless. — Charles Bukowski Copy Share Image
Dying should come easy: like a freight train you don't hear when your back is turned. — Charles Bukowski Copy Share Image
“darkness falls upon Humanity and faces become terrible things that wanted more than there was. all our days are marked with unexpected… — Charles Bukowski Copy Share Image
little sun little moon little dog and a little to eat and a little to love and a little to live for… — Charles Bukowski Copy Share Image
“You can’t beat death but you can beat death in life, sometimes.” — Charles Bukowski Copy Share Image
The years have gone by quickly. Death sits in the seat next to me. We make a lovely couple. — Charles Bukowski Copy Share Image
“but now it’s the waiting on death. it’s not death that’s the problem, it’s the waiting.” — Charles Bukowski Copy Share Image
“There's nothing to mourn about death any more than there is to mourn about the growing of a flower. What is terrible… — Charles Bukowski Copy Share Image
“Endurance is more important than truth because without endurance there can't be any truth. And truth means going to the end like… — Charles Bukowski Copy Share Image
“unaccountably we are alone forever alone and it was meant to be that way, it was never meant to be any other… — Charles Bukowski Copy Share Image
Somebody at one of these places asked me: "What do you do? How do you write, create?" You don't, I told them.… — Charles Bukowski Copy Share Image
“sometimes when everything seems at its worst when all conspires and gnaws and the hours, days, weeks years seem wasted – stretched there upon… — Charles Bukowski Copy Share Image
well, death says, as he walks by, I'm going to get you anyhow no matter what you've been: writer, cab-driver, pimp, butcher, sky-diver, I'm… — Charles Bukowski Copy Share Image
“There is only one place to write and that is alone at a typewriter. A writer who has to go into the streets is… — Charles Bukowski Copy Share Image
Even the stove and the refrigerator looked human, I mean good human - they seemed to have arms and voices and they said, hang… — Charles Bukowski Copy Share Image
“nerves twitching in the sheets -- to face the sunlight again, that's clearly trouble. I like the city better when the neon lights are… — Charles Bukowski Copy Share Image
“Their Love Is Average, Seeks Average But There Is Genius In Their Hatred” — Charles Bukowski Copy Share Image
“I climbed the stairway (there was no elevator) and put the key in. The door swung open. Somebody had changed all the furniture around,… — Charles Bukowski Copy Share Image
“Strangers when you meet, strangers when you part -a gymnasium of bodies namelessly masturbating each other. People with no morals often considered themselves more… — Charles Bukowski Copy Share Image
I like to change liquor stores frequently because the clerks got to know your habits if you went in night and day and bought… — Charles Bukowski Copy Share Image
“I was like a turd that drew flies instead of like a flower that butterflies and bees desired. I wanted to live alone,I felt… — Charles Bukowski Copy Share Image
