Ham on Rye

by Charles Bukowski

‘I think I’m going to die,’ the old man said. ‘I don’t want to die. I’m afraid to die …’ ‘You’ve lived long enough, you old fart!’ muttered my father.

Interesting exchange

‘Listen, Jimmy, why do you follow me around? I don’t like anything about you.’ ‘Ah, come on, Hank, we’re friends.’ ‘Yeah?’ ‘Yes.’

Interesting exchange

It made you realize that thoughts and words could be fascinating, if finally useless.

‘Whitlinger!’ ‘Yes, sir!’ ‘Would you want those guys raping your mother?’ ‘My mother’s dead, sir.’ ‘Oh, sorry … Drake!’ ‘Yes, sir!’ ‘Would you want those guys raping your mother?’ ‘No, sir!’

War was probably hell but the in-between parts were boring.

No wonder I had been depressed all my life. I wasn’t getting proper nourishment.

Why did the Master Race movement draw nothing but mental and physical cripples?

‘Someday I’m going to write all this down. I’ll be on the library shelves: BECKER. The “B’s” are very weak, they need help.’