Just read HOLLYWOOD by Charles Bukowski. It’s been years since I indulged in Bukowski’s barroom banter, and it was just as messy, screwed up and thoroughly delightful as ever.
His drunken, misogynistic musings are crude, crafty and hilarious. If you’ve never tried Bukowski, grab a bottle and chug it down. He’s the real deal.
“If you’re going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don’t even start.”
“If you persisted long enough, the good luck usually came. Most people couldn’t wait on the luck, though, so they quit.”
“People run from rain but sit in bathtubs full of water.”
“Did she love you? Only as an extension of herself. What else can love be?”
“Love is a form of prejudice. You love what you need, you love what makes you feel good, you love what is convenient.”
“I remember awakening one morning and finding everything smeared with the color of forgotten love.”
“I never felt right being alone; sometimes it felt good but it never felt right.”
“There is a loneliness in this world so great that you can see it in the slow movement of the hands of a clock.”