Henry Charles Bukowski (born Heinrich Karl Bukowski; August 16, 1920 – March 9, 1994) was a German-American poet, novelist, and short story writer.
My ambition is handicapped by laziness
That’s when I first learned that it wasn’t enough to just do your job, you had to have an interest in it, even a passion for it.
You have to die a few times before you can really live.
there is moss on the walls and the stain of thought and failure and waiting
The empty, the angry, the lonely, the tricked, we are all museums of fear.
Homosexuals are delicate and bad poetry is delicate and [Allen] Ginsberg turned the tables by making homosexual poetry strong poetry, almost manly poetry; but in the long run, the homo will remain the homo and not the poet.
People need me. I fill them. If they can't see me for a while they get desperate, they get sick. But if I see them too often I get sick. It's hard to feed without getting fed.
human relationships simply aren't durable. I think back to the women in my life. they seem non-existent.
No matter how little a man has he will find that he will always settle for less.
Most people are not ready for death, theirs or anybody elses.
There's music in everything, even defeat
and love was lightning and remembrance
Are you becoming what you've always hated?
Things get bad for all of us, almost continually, and what we do under the constant stress reveals whowhat we are.
Gradually I came to realize that my understanding of women goes only as far as the pleasure is concerned.
the sea is made of blood
To me Art (poetry) is a continuous and continuing process and that when a man fails to write good poetry he fails to live fully or well.
The writing's easy, it's the living that is sometimes difficult.
I don't know about other people, but when I wake up in the morning and put my shoes on, I think, Jesus Christ, now what?
I will remember the kisses our lips raw with love and how you gave me everything you had and how I offered you what was left of me, and I will remember your small room the feel of you the light in the window your records your books our morning coffee our noons our nights our bodies spilled together sleeping the tiny flowing currents immediate and forever your leg my leg your arm my arm your smile and the warmth of you who made me laugh again.