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Charles Bukowski

  • Amanda Mirellehar citeretfor 12 dage siden
    “I had a dream about you. I opened your chest like a cabinet, it had doors, and when I opened the doors I saw all kinds of soft things inside you—teddy bears, tiny fuzzy animals, all these soft, cuddly things. Then I had a dream about this other man. He walked up to me and handed me some pieces of paper. He was a writer. I took the pieces of paper and looked at them. And the pieces of paper had cancer. His writing had cancer.
  • Natalija Kuznecovhar citeretfor 2 måneder siden
    each person is only given so many

    evenings

    and each wasted evening is

    a gross violation against the

    natural course of

    your only

    life
  • Natalija Kuznecovhar citeretfor 2 måneder siden
    it has taken me

    decades

    but I have finally found out

    how to say

    “no.”
  • Natalija Kuznecovhar citeretfor 2 måneder siden
    it

    takes

    a lot of

    desperation

    dissatisfaction

    and

    disillusion

    to

    write

    a

    few

    good

    poems.

    it’s not

    for

    everybody
  • Natalija Kuznecovhar citeretfor 2 måneder siden
    it’s all right to be a starving writer

    but not

    a starving writer who

    drinks.

    drunks are never forgiven

    anything.
  • Natalija Kuznecovhar citeretfor 2 måneder siden
    my cat looks at me and is not sure what I am and

    I look back and am pleased to feel

    the same

    about him…
  • Natalija Kuznecovhar citeretfor 2 måneder siden
    not writing is not good

    but trying to write

    when you can’t is

    worse.
  • Natalija Kuznecovhar citeretfor 2 måneder siden
    “you’ll write again,” people

    assure me, “you’ll be

    better than

    ever.”

    that’s nice to know.

    but the typewriter is silent

    and it looks at

    me.

    meanwhile, every two or three

    weeks

    I get a fan letter in the mail

    telling me that

    surely

    I must be

    the world’s greatest

    writer.

    but

    the typewriter is silent

    and looks at

    me….
  • Natalija Kuznecovhar citeretfor 2 måneder siden
    it’s no use, I’ve got to admit,

    I am into my first real

    writer’s block

    after over

    5 decades

    of typing.

    I have some excuses:

    I’ve had a long

    illness

    and I’m nearing the age of

    70.

    and when you’re near

    70 you always consider the

    possibility of

    slippage.

    but I am bucked-up

    by the fact that

    Cervantes

    wrote his greatest work

    at the age of

    80.

    but how many

    Cervantes

    are there?
  • Natalija Kuznecovhar citeretfor 2 måneder siden
    I should accept this

    writer’s block.

    hell, I’m lucky I’m alive,

    I’m lucky I don’t have

    cancer.

    I’m lucky in a hundred

    different ways.

    sometimes at night

    in bed

    at one or two a.m.

    I will think about

    how lucky I am

    and it keeps me

    awake
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