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Charles Bukowski Quotes about Wine

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I was fairly poor but most of my money went for wine and classical music. I loved to mix the two together.

I was fairly poor but most of my money went for wine and classical music. I loved to mix the two together.

Charles Bukowski
Wine, Two, Together

Writing is something that you don't know how to do. You sit down and it's something that happens, or it may not happen. So, how can you teach anybody how to write? It's beyond me, because you yourself don't even know if you're going to be able to. I'm always worried, well, you know, every time I go upstairs with my wine bottle. Sometimes I'll sit at that typewriter for fifteen minutes, you know. I don't go up there to write. The typewriter's up there. If it doesn't start moving, I say, well this could be the night that I hit the dust.

Charles Bukowski
Fear, Moving, Wine

My objection to war was not that I had to kill somebody or be killed senselessly, that hardly mattered. What I objected to was to be denied the right to sit in a small room and starve and drink cheap wine and go crazy in my own way and at my own leisure.

Charles Bukowski
Crazy, War, Wine

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

the last cigarettes are smoked, the loaves are sliced, and lest this be taken for wry sorrow, drown the spider in wine. you are much more than simply dead: I am a dish for your ashes, I am a fist for your vanished air. the most terrible thing about life is finding it gone.

Charles Bukowski
Taken, Wine, Air
Charles Bukowski (2009). “sifting through the madness for the word, the line, the way: New Poems”, p.101, Zondervan

I write right off the typer. I call it my "machinegun." I hit it hard, usually late at night while drinking wine and listening to classical music on the radio and smoking mangalore ganesh beedies.

Charles Bukowski
Drinking, Writing, Wine

There would never be a way for me to live comfortably with people. Maybe I'd become a monk. I'd pretend to believe in God and live in a cubicle, play an organ and stay drunk on wine.

Charles Bukowski
Believe, Wine, Play
Charles Bukowski (2001). “Ham On Rye”, p.182, Canongate Books

yes, Wagner and the storm intermix with the wine as nights like this run up my wrists and up into my head and back down into the gut

Charles Bukowski
Running, Wine, Night
Charles Bukowski (2012). “The Pleasures of the Damned: Selected Poems 1951-1993”, p.116, Canongate Books

I've never been lonely. I like myself. I'm the best form of entertainment I have. Let's drink more wine!

Charles Bukowski
Lonely, Loneliness, Wine
Charles Bukowski (2003). “Sunlight Here I Am: Interviews and Encounters, 1963-1993”

Long before I became 'rich and famous' I just sat round drinking wine and staring at the walls.

Charles Bukowski
Wall, Drinking, Wine

the writing of some men is like a vast bridge that carries you over the many things that claw and tear. The Wine of Forever

Charles Bukowski
Writing, Wine, Men

my greatest problem was stamps, envelopes, paper and wine, with the world on the edge of World War II.

Charles Bukowski
War, Wine, World
Charles Bukowski (2012). “The Pleasures of the Damned: Selected Poems 1951-1993”, p.364, Canongate Books

the psyche has been burned and left us senseless, the world has been darker than lights-out in a closet full of hungry bats, and the whiskey and wine entered our veins when blood was too weak to carry on

Charles Bukowski
Wine, Blood, Light
Charles Bukowski (2012). “The Pleasures of the Damned: Selected Poems 1951-1993”, p.60, Canongate Books

there was something about that city, though it didn't let me feel guilty that I had no feeling for the things so many others needed. it let me alone. sitting up in my bed the lights out, hearing the outside sounds, lifting my cheap bottle of wine, letting the warmth of the grape enter me as I heard the rats moving about the room, I preferred them to humans. being lost, being crazy maybe is not so bad if you can be that way undisturbed. New Orleans gave me that. nobody ever called my name.

Charles Bukowski
Crazy, Moving, Wine

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