Thanksgiving. It proved you had survived another year with its wars, inflation, unemployment, smog, presidents. It was a grand neurotic gathering of clans: loud drunks, grandmothers, sisters, aunts, screaming children, would-be suicides. And don't forget indigestion. I wasn't different from anyone else: There sat the 18-pound bird on my sink, dead, plucked, totally disemboweled. Iris would roast it for me.
Charles BukowskiWe have wasted History like a bunch of drunks shooting dice back in the men's crapper of the local bar.
Charles BukowskiHow are his poems?" "He's not as good as he thinks he is, but then most of us feel that way.
Charles BukowskiThat's how it is with books, isn't it: They're not in a hurry. They'll wait for you till you're ready. People empty me. I have to go away to refill.
Charles Bukowski