Factotum

by Charles Bukowski

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.

I was a man who thrived on solitude; without it I was like another man without food or water.

Each new trainload of faces was more ugly, demented and cruel than the last. I drank the wine.

I worked for several weeks. I came in drunk each night. It didn’t matter; I had the job nobody wanted.

“Then what’s wrong?” “I don’t like people.” “Do you think that’s right?” “Probably not.”

Women, I thought, women are magic. What marvelous beings they are!

A man with a hangover should never lay flat on his back looking up at the roof of a warehouse.

She was an unusual woman. But one thing I could always count on, she wanted to fuck in the mornings, very much.

“Someday,” I told Jan, “when they demonstrate that the world has four dimensions instead of just three, a man will be able to go for a walk and just disappear. No burial, no tears, no illusions, no heaven or hell.

We really had nothing to do but drink wine and make love.

“A woman is a full-time job. You have to choose your profession.” “I suppose there is an emotional drain.” “Physical too. They want to fuck night and day.” “Get one you like to fuck.” “Yes, but if you drink or gamble they think it’s a put-down of their love.” “Get one who likes to drink, gamble and fuck.”

I understood it too well now—that great lovers were always men of leisure.

we had lived and loved together for too many days.

How in the hell could a man enjoy being awakened at 6:30 a.m. by an alarm clock, leap out of bed, dress, force-feed, shit, piss, brush teeth and hair, and fight traffic to get to a place where essentially you made lots of money for somebody else and were asked to be grateful for the opportunity to do so?