“The nights you fight best arewhen all the weapons are pointed at you,when all the voices hurl their insultswhile the dream is being strangled.The nights you fight best arewhen reason gets kicked in the gut,when the chariots of gloom encircle you.The nights you fight best arewhen the laughter of fools fills the air,when the kiss of death is mistaken for love.The nights you fight best arewhen the game is fixed,when the crowd screams for your blood.The nights you fight best areon a night like thisas you chase a thousand dark rats from your brain,as you rise up against the impossible,as you become a brother to the tender sister of joyand move on regardless.”
Charles Bukowski“the best part waspulling down theshadesstuffing the doorbellwith ragsputting the phonein therefrigeratorand going to bedfor 3 or 4days. and the next bestpartwasnobody evermissedme.”
Charles Bukowski, You Get So Alone at Times That it Just Makes Sense“I have one problem, I don’t hate people. They disgust me and I want to get away from them. I do not have hatred. I have an escape mechanism.”
Charles Bukowski“I don't know. It's been terribly hard for me. How do I know you won't do it again?''Nobody is ever quite sure of what they will do. You aren't sure what you might do.”
Charles Bukowski, Women“Her one drink had Cecelia giggling and talking and she was explaining that animals had souls too. Nobody challenged her opinion. It was possible, we knew. What we weren't sure of was if we had any.”
Charles Bukowski, Women“The problem with the world is that the intelligent people are full of doubts while the stupid one are full of confidence".”
Charles Bukowski“Yawn...I believe that I love sleepmuch more than anybody I’ve evermet.I have the ability to sleep for2 or 3 days andnights.I will go to bed at any givenmoment.I often confused my girlfriendsthis way—say it would be about onethirtyin the afternoon:“well, I’m going to bed now, I’mgoing to sleep…”most of them wouldn’t mind, theywould go to bed with methinking I was hinting forsexbut I would just turn my backand snore off.this, of course, could explainwhy so many of my girlfriendsleft me.as for doctors, they were neverany help:“listen, I have this desire togo to bed and sleep, almost allthe time.what is wrong withme?”“do you get enough exercise?”“yes…”“are you getting enoughnourishment?”“yes…”they always handed me aprescriptionwhich I threw awaybetween the office and theparking lot.it’s a curious maladybecause I can’t sleep between6 p.m. and midnight.it must occur aftermidnightand when I ariseit can never bebefore noon.and should the phone ringsay at 10:30 a.m.I go into a mad ragedon’t even ask who the callerisscream into thephone: “WHAT ARE YOUCALLING ME FOR AT THISHOUR!”hangup…every person, I suppose, hastheir eccentricitiesbut in an effort to benormalin the world’seyethey overcome themand thereforedestroy theirspecial calling.I’ve kept mineand do believe thatthey have lent generously tomy existence.I think it’s the main reason Idecided to become awriter: I can typeanytime andsleepwhen I damn wellplease.”
Charles Bukowski