Amazing Charles Bukowski Quotes

Pull a string, a puppet moves … each man must realize that it can all disappear very quickly: the cat, the woman, the job, the front tire, the bed, the walls, the room; all our necessities including love, rest on foundations of sand – and any given cause, no matter how unrelated: the death of a boy in Hong Kong or a blizzard in Omaha … can serve as your undoing. all your chinaware crashing to the kitchen floor, your girl will enter and you’ll be standing, drunk, in the center of it and she’ll ask: my god, what’s the matter? and you’ll answer: I don’t know, I don’t know.


terror finally becomes almost bearable but never quite terror creeps like a cat crawls like a cat across my mind


That moment – to this … may be years in the way they measure, but it’s only one sentence back in my mind – there are so many days when living stops and pulls up and sits and waits like a train on the rails. I pass the hotel at 8 and at 5; there are cats in the alleys and bottles and bums, and I look up at the window and think, I no longer know where you are, and I walk on and wonder where the living goes when it stops.


In my next life I want to be a cat. To sleep 20 hours a day and wait to be fed. To sit around licking my ass.


and now sometimes I’m interviewed, they want to hear about life and literature and I get drunk and hold up my cross-eyed, shot, runover de-tailed cat and I say,”look, look at this!” but they don’t understand, they say something like,”you say you’ve been influenced by Celine?” no,” I hold the cat up,”by what happens, by things like this, by this, by this!


when I am feeling low all i have to do is watch my cats and my courage returns


Any asshole can chase a skirt, art takes discipline.


To do a dull thing with style-now that’s what I call art.


The Difference Between Art and Life is that Art is More Bearable


Great art is horseshit, buy tacos.


great writers are indecent people they live unfairly saving the best part for paper. good human beings save the world so that bastards like me can keep creating art, become immortal. if you read this after I am dead it means I made it.


To create art means to be crazy alone forever.


little sun little moon little dog and a little to eat and a little to love and a little to live for in a little room filled with little mice who gnaw and dance and run while I sleep waiting for a little death in the middle of a little morning in a little city in a little state my little mother dead my little father dead in a little cemetery somewhere. I have only a little time to tell you this: watch out for little death when he comes running but like all the billions of little deaths it will finally mean nothing and everything: all your little tears burning like the dove, wasted.


..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.


I could see the road ahead of me. I was poor and I was going to stay poor. But I didn’t particularly want money. I didn’t know what I wanted. Yes, I did. I wanted someplace to hide out, someplace where one didn’t have to do anything. The thought of being something didn’t only appall me, it sickened me . . . To do things, to be part of family picnics, Christmas, the 4th of July, Labor Day, Mother’s Day . . . was a man born just to endure those things and then die? I would rather be a dishwasher, return alone to a tiny room and drink myself to sleep.


The trouble with these people is that their cities have never been bombed and their mothers have never been told to shut up.