#1977 #AmericanWriters #LoveIsADogFromHell
Jack London drinking his life awa… writing of strange and heroic men. Eugene O’Neill drinking himself o… while writing his dark and poetic works.
I began receiving letters from a girl in New York City. Her name was Mindy. She had run across a couple of my books, but the best thing about her letters was that she seldom mentioned w...
at the hospital that I have been going to the nurses seem overweight. they are bulky in their
stuck in the rain on the freeway,… these are the lucky ones, these ar… dutifully employed, most with thei… as possible as they try not to thi… this is our new civilization: as m…
he packaged it up neatly in differ… sending the legs to an aunt in St.… the head to a scoutmaster in Brook… the belly to a cross-eyed butcher… the female organs were sent to a y…
I never wear dark shades but this red head went to get a prescription filled on Hollywood… and she kept haggling and working… me, snapping and snarling.
I get many phonecalls now. They are all alike. “are you Charles Bukowski, the writer?” “yes,” I tell them.
I began at 6:18 p.m. and Dave Janko did not begin until 10:36 p.m., so it could have been worse. Having a 10:06 thirty minute lunch, I was usually back by the time he got in. In he’d co...
you have to have it or the walls w… in. you have to give everything up, th… away, everything away. you have to look at what you look…
Later in the hospital they were dabbing at my knees with pieces of cotton that had been soaked in something. It burned. My elbows burned too. The doctor was bending over me with a nurse...
Van Gogh cut off his ear gave it to a prostitute who flung it away in extreme
what you see is what you see: madhouses are rarely on display. that we still walk about and scratch ourselves and light
But the next morning it was the sa… “That’s all, Chinaski. Nothing fo… It went on for a week. I sat ther… Then Bobby Hansen, one of the old… “I don’t care. I’m not kissing hi…
nobody goes downtown anymore the plants and trees have been cut… Pershing Square the grass is brown and the street preachers are not a…
It was another Sunday that we got into the Model-T in search of my Uncle John. “He has no ambition,” said my father. “I don’t see how he can hold his god-damned head up and look people ...