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 BukowskiI write right off the typer. I call it my "machinegun." I hit it hard, usually late at night while drinking wine and listening to classical music on the radio and smoking mangalore ganesh beedies.
Charles BukowskiYou know the typical crowd, Wow, itโs Friday night, what are you going to do? Just sit there? Well, yeah. Because thereโs nothing out there. Itโs stupidity. Stupid people mingling with stupid people. Let them stupidify themselves. Iโve never been bothered with the need to rush out into the night. Thatโs all. Sorry for all the millions, but Iโve never been lonely. I like myself. Iโm the best form of entertainment I have.
Charles Bukowski