we know God is dead, they’ve told us, but listening to you I wasn’t sure.
— Bukowski
small cheap rooms where you walk
down the hall to the
bathroom can seem romantic to
a young writer.
even the rejection slips are
amusing because you are sure that
you are
one of the best.
but while sitting there
looking across the room
at the portable typer
waiting for you on the table
you are really
in a sense
insane
as you wait for
one more night to arrive to sit and
type Immortal Words—but now you
just sit and think about it
on your first afternoon in a strange city.
looking over at the door you
almost
expect a beautiful woman to walk in.
being young
helps get you through
many senseless and terrible
days.
being old
does
too.
by Charles Bukowski
abukowskiaday:
style is the answer to everything.
fresh way to approach a dull or dangerous day.
to do a dull thing with style is preferable to doing a dangerous thing without style.
to do a dangerous thing with style, is what I call art.
bullfighting can be an art.
boxing can be an art.
loving can be an art.
opening a can of sardines can be an art.
not many have style.
not many can keep style.
i have seen dogs with more style than men.
although not many dogs have style.
cats have it with abundance.
when hemingway put his brains to the wall with a shotgun, that was style.
for sometimes people give you style.
joan of arc had style.
john the baptist.
jesus.
socrates.
caesar.
garcia lorca.
i have met men in jail with style.
i have met more men in jail with style than men
out of jail.
style is a difference, a way of doing, a way of
being done.
six herons standing quietly in a pool of water, or
you, walking
out of the bathroom without seeing me.
- charles bukowski
(by charles bukowski, my king)
when Whitman wrote, “I sing the body electric”
I know what he
meant
I know what he
wanted:
to be completely alive every moment
in spite of the inevitable.
we can’t cheat death but we can make it
work so hard
that when it does take
us
it will have known a victory just as
perfect as
ours.
‘Baby,’ I said, ‘I’m a genius but nobody knows it but me.’
—
Charles Bukowski (via literaryheartbeat)
Oh Bukowski, you and your honesty and your Polish name and your deliciously vulgar words… when I think of the Brutal Good, I think of you.
(Source: )
