And there I was, 225 pounds, perpetually lost and confused, short legs, ape-like upper body, all chest, no neck, head too large, blurred eyes, hair uncombed, 6 feet of geek, waiting for her.
Charles BukowskiThe writer has no responsibility other than to jack off in bed alone and write a good page.
Charles Bukowskibut as God said, crossing his legs, I see where I have made plenty of poets but not so very much poetry.
Charles Bukowski