Колко лесно можеш да зарадваш някого. Останала част от света беше проблема.
Charles BukowskiИ така, ето ме. Седя и слушам дъжда. Ако в този миг умра няма да има кой да пролее и една сълза за мен. Не, че го исках. Но беше странно. Колко самотен може да бъде един духач като мен?
Charles BukowskiУжасно досадни хора. Плъзнали са по цялата земя. И наплодяват нови досадни хора. Какво ужасно зрелище. Земята гъмжи от тях.
Charles BukowskiI 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 BukowskiStichwörter: win importance-of-winning just-because-it-is
The secret is writing down one simple line after another.
Charles BukowskiNew affairs were exciting but they
were also hard work. The first kiss, the first fuck had some drama. People were interesting at first. Then later, slowly but surely, all the flaws and madness would manifest themselves. I would become less and less to them; they would mean less and less to me.
You have to die a few times before you actually live.
Charles BukowskiC’erano parecchie cose che mi facevano diventare sentimentale: le scarpe di una donna sotto il letto; una forcina dimenticata sul tavolo da toilette; quel loro modo di dire:
Charles BukowskiThere was no sense to life, to the structure of things. D.H. Lawrence had known that. You needed love, but not the kind of love most people used and were used up by. Old D.H. had known something. His buddy Huxley was just an intellectual fidget, but what a marvelous one. Better than G.B. Shaw with that hard keel of a mind always scraping bottom, his labored wit finally only a task, a burden on himself, preventing him from really feeling anything, his brilliant speech finally a bore, scraping the mind and the sensibilities. It was good to read them all though. It made you realize that thoughts and words could be fascinating, if finally useless.
Charles BukowskiStichwörter: humor literature criticism
To create art means
to be crazy alone
forever.
Stichwörter: poetry bukowski bukowskisism
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