You Get So Alone At Times That It Just Makes Sense

by Charles Bukowski

everything is so sweetly awful, so continuously and sweetly awful: the art of consummation: life eating life…

the impossibility of being human

there is a place in the heart that will never be filled a space and even during the best moments and the greatest times we will know it we will know it more than ever there is a place in the heart that will never be filled and we will wait and wait in that space.

actually, her life is boring and rather common but most are—mine is too

all she wants is what she always wanted, only it’s getting further and further away.

all our days are marked with unexpected affronts—some disastrous, others less so but the process is wearing and continuous.

let them have the stage so long as I need not be in the audience.

the courage it took to get out of bed each morning to face the same things over and over was enormous.

it’s humanity on the move, most of them coming from some place they hated and going to another they hate just as much or more.

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