You Get So Alone At Times That It Just Makes Sense

by Charles Bukowski

some men never die and some men never live

because to make a thing true all you’ve got to do is believe.

it was one of those times where nothing was lost because nothing had ever been found

each man’s hell is in a different place:

my death will at most seem an afterthought.

agony sometimes changes form but it never ceases for anybody.

the price of creation is never too high.

sometimes all we need to be able to continue alone are the dead rattling the walls that close us in.

the secret is in the imagination— take that away and you have dead meat.

the writing of some men is like a vast bridge that carries you over the many things that claw and tear.

that last bright sunshine we warmed ourselves in it shutting away everything else while the universe opened its mouth in an attempt to swallow us all.

take a writer away from his typewriter and all you have left is the sickness which started him typing in the beginning.

history surrounds us and our lives slink away in shame.

the mutilation of talent the gods seldom give but so quickly take.

what matters most is how well you walk through the fire.