What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire

by Charles Bukowski

I’d read half the books in the library and had spit them out.

I just feel better and it’s good to feel better whenever you can not needing a reason.

I wish to weep but sorrow is stupid.

things are so easily lost. things just can’t be kept forever.

it was like a church in there as only the truly lost sit in bars on Tuesday mornings at 8:00 a.m.

the museum of pain doesn’t charge admission, it’s free as skunkshit.

amazing, the energy we burn fueling our anger.

each night counts for something or else we’d all go mad.

if somebody reads this and your day and your night were akin to mine, then somehow we’ve touched, strange brother or sister, and we both understand that death is not the tragedy. you are alone and I am alone and it’s best that we aren’t together comparing our pitiful sorrows.

we all need something we can do well, you know. like scuba diving or opening the morning mail.

things get bad for all of us, almost continually, and what we do under the constant stress reveals who/what we are.

nothing but this beastly and magic leisure,

what she doesn’t realize is that—usually—only boring people get bored.

nobody wins. ask Caesar.

good night, sweet little motherfucker.

life becomes difficult: being ignored and ignoring.

laughter or tears or immaculate unconcern

there is a loneliness in this world so great that you can see it in the slow movement of a clock’s hands.

waiting on death can be perfectly peaceful.

time is meant to be wasted, love fails and death is useless.

it’s a sunny day now. jump while you can.

don’t lament lost youth: youth was no wonder either.

if you’re going to try, go all the way. otherwise, don’t even start.