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Charles Bukowski Quotes - Page 12

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Somebody at one of these places asked me: What do you do? How do you write, create? You don't, I told them. You don't try. That's very important: not to try, either for Cadillacs, creation or immortality. You wait, and

Somebody at one of these places asked me: "What do you do? How do you write, create?" You don't, I told them. You "don't try". That's very important: not to try, either for Cadillacs, creation or immortality. You wait, and if nothing happens, you wait some more. It's like a bug high on the wall. You wait for it to come to you. When it gets close enough you reach out, slap out and kill it. Or if you like it's looks, you make a pet out of it.

Charles Bukowski
Wall, Writing, Waiting

Existence was not only absurd, it was plain hard work. Think of how many times you put on your underwear in a lifetime. It was appalling, it was disgusting, it was stupid.

Charles Bukowski
Stupid, Hard Work, Thinking

I never pump up my vulgarity. I wait for it to arrive in its own terms.

Charles Bukowski
Waiting, Pumps, Term
Charles Bukowski (1978). “Women”

I never met another man I'd rather be. And even if that's a delusion, it's a lucky one.

Charles Bukowski
Men, Lucky, Mets

Our disappointment sits between us.

Charles Bukowski
Disappointment

I was fighting a small fight of my own which wasn't leading anywhere-but like a man with a bent spoon trying to dig through a cement wall I knew that a small fight was better than quitting: it kept the heart alive.

Charles Bukowski
Wall, Heart, Fighting

My body gnaws at me from one side and my spirit gnaws at me from the other.

Charles Bukowski
Body, Sides, Spirit

all that I know is that I believe in the sound of music and the running of a horse. all else is squabble.

Charles Bukowski
Running, Horse, Believe
Charles Bukowski (2008). “Charles Bukowski: portions from a wine-stained notebook : uncollected stories and essays, 1944-1990”, City Lights Publishers

so it's always a process of letting go, one way or another

Charles Bukowski
Letting Go, Way, Process

I didn't like anybody in that school. I think they knew that. I think that's why they disliked me. I didn't like the way they walked or looked or talked, but I didn't like my mother or father either. I still had the feeling of being surrounded by white empty space. There was always a slight nausea in my stomach.

Charles Bukowski
Mother, Father, School
Charles Bukowski (2001). “Ham On Rye”, p.83, Canongate Books

the beautiful are found in the edge of a room crumpled into spiders and needles and silence and we can never understand why they left,they were so beautiful. they dont make it, the beautiful die young and leave the ugly to their ugly lives.

Charles Bukowski
Beautiful, Silence, Spiders
Charles Bukowski, “Whats The Use Of A Title?”

Play the Piano Drunk Like a Percussion Instrument Until the Fingers Begin to Bleed a Bit.

Charles Bukowski
Play, Piano, Drunk
1979 Title of book.

The blankets had fallen off and I stared down at her white back, the shoulder blades sticking out as if they wanted to grow into wings, poke through that skin. Little blades. She was helpless.

Charles Bukowski
Wings, White, Skins
Charles Bukowski (2014). “Charles Bukowski Fiction Collection”, Harper Collins

Everything was a trap: women, drugs, whiskey, wine, scotch, beer - even beer - cigars, and cigarettes. Traps: Work or no work. Traps: Artistry or no artistry; everything sucked you into some spiderweb. I disdained the use of the needle for the same reason that I disdained some so-called beautiful women - the price was far beyond the measure of the worth. I didn't want to hustle that hard.

Charles Bukowski
Beautiful, Wine, Beer
Charles Bukowski (2008). “Charles Bukowski: portions from a wine-stained notebook : uncollected stories and essays, 1944-1990”, City Lights Publishers

..few writers like other writers' works. The only time they like them is when they are dead or if they have been for a long time. Writers only like to sniff their own turds. I am one of those. I don't even like to talk to writers, look at them or worse, listen to them. And the worst is to drink with them, they slobber all over themselves, really look piteous, look like they are searching for the wing of the mother. I'd rather think about death than about other writers. Far more pleasant.

Charles Bukowski
Mother, Thinking, Wings

you've got to burn straight up and down and then maybe sidewise for a while and have your guts scrambled by a bully and the demonic ladies, you've got to run along the edge of madness teetering, you've got to starve like a winter alleycat, you've go to live with the imbecility of at least a dozen cities, then maybe maybe maybe you might know where you are for a tiny blinking moment.

Charles Bukowski
Running, Winter, Cities

To me, nudity is a joke. I don't think nude people are very attractive at all. I like my women fully clothed. I like to imagine what might be under there. It might not be the standard thing. Imagine, stripping a woman down, and she has a body like a little submarine. With periscope, propellers, torpedoes. That would be the one for me. I'd marry her right off and be faithful to the end.

Charles Bukowski
Thinking, People, Faithful

He had long nostril hairs, powerfully intimidating, like an unscheduled nightmare.

Charles Bukowski
Hair, Long, Nightmare

I heard an airplane passing overhead. I wished I was on it.

Charles Bukowski
Airplane, Passing, Heard
Charles Bukowski (2001). “Ham On Rye”, p.238, Canongate Books

...maybe a damned good night's sleep will bring me back to a gentle sanity. But at the moment, I look about this room and, like myself, it's all in disarray: things fallen out of place, cluttered, jumbled, lost, knocked over and I can't put it straight, don't want to. Perhaps living through these petty days will get us ready for the dangerous ones.

Charles Bukowski
Good Night, Sleep, Looks

People just don't know how to write down a simple easy line. It's difficult for them; it's like trying to keep a hard-on while drowning - not many can do it.

Charles Bukowski
Writing, Simple, People

I felt I had to win. It seemed very important. I didn't know why it was important and I kept thinking, why do I think this is so important? And another part of me answered, just because it is.

Charles Bukowski
Winning, Thinking, Important
Charles Bukowski (2001). “Ham On Rye”, p.318, Canongate Books

Cautiously, I allowed myself to feel good at times. I found moments of peace in cheap rooms just staring at the knobs of some dresser or listening to the rain in the dark. The less I needed the better I felt.

Charles Bukowski
Rain, Dark, Feel Good
Charles Bukowski, “Let It Enfold You”

mercy, I think, doesn't the human race know anything about mercy?

Charles Bukowski
Thinking, Race, Mercy
Charles Bukowski (2012). “The Pleasures of the Damned: Selected Poems 1951-1993”, p.58, Canongate Books

2 p.m. beer nothing matters but flopping on a mattress with cheap dreams and a beer as the leaves die and the horses die and the landladies stare in the halls; brisk the music of pulled shades, a last man's cave in an eternity of swarm and explosion; nothing but the dripping sink, the empty bottle, euphoria, youth fenced in, stabbed and shaven, taught words propped up to die.

Charles Bukowski
Dream, Horse, Beer
Charles Bukowski (2009). “Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame”, p.26, Harper Collins

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