Nick, que esa cosa tan grande que está ahi empinada mientras hablas conmigo?
-Ah, esto! Es mi barriga!
The Artist," an ancient sage had once said, "is always sitting on the doorsteps of the rich.
Charles Bukowskibut isn't there always
one good thing
to look back on?
think of
how many cups of coffee we
drank together.
She could talk. If she was a sphinx she could have talked, if she was a stone she could have talked. I wondered when she'd get tired and leave. Even after I stopped listening it was like being battered with tiny pingpong balls.
Charles BukowskiTags: talking
I get 75 letters a month. If i answered them that's all I would ever do.
Charles BukowskiI was drawn to all the wrong things: I liked to drink, I was lazy, I didn't have a god, politics, ideas, ideals. I was settled into nothingness; a kind of non-being, and I accepted it. I didn't make for an interesting person. I didn't want to be interesting, it was too hard. What I really wanted was only a soft, hazy space to live in, and to be left alone. On the other hand, when I got drunk I screamed, went crazy, got all out of hand. One kind of behavior didn't fit the other. I didn't care.
Charles BukowskiTags: nihilism hedonism alcoholism
There's no way I can stop writing, it's a form of insanity.
Charles BukowskiTags: writing
It's like a movie, I thought, like a fucking movie. It seemed funny to me. It felt as if we were on camera. I liked it. It was better than the racetrack, it was better than the boxing matches. We kept drinking.
Charles BukowskiTags: life movies derealization
Her violence frightened me. She always claimed that I was the jealous one, and I was often jealous, but when I saw things working against me I simply became disgusted and withdrew. Lydia was different. She reacted. She was the Head Cheerleader at the Game of Violence.
Charles BukowskiTags: love relationships
Most people are much better at saying things in letters than in conversation, and some people can write artistic, inventive letters, but when they try a poem or story or novel they become pretentious.
Charles BukowskiTags: poetry writing conversation
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