Aphorisms by Charles Bukowski

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As anyone can tell you, I'm not an agreeable person: I don't even know what that means. I've always admired the baddies, the outlaws, the sons of bitches. I don't like perfectly shaven men, with a tie and a good job. I like desperate men, with broken teeth, with the brain in pieces and a disgusting life. I'm interested in them. They're full of surprises. I also have a small spot for sluts, for those who get drunk and swear, that have loose tights and smudged make-up. I'm more interested in perverts than saints. I relax with stoners because I'm a stoner too. I don't like laws, morale, religions, rules. I don't want to be moulded by society.

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This life is a whore and she'll probably break my heart, but shit, I'm in love. This is how it works, rhum and pear, because there are some strong moments that leave a sour flavour in the mouth, and others that are so nice to make you forget that bad back-flavour that life has.

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Think of the millions of people who live together even if they don't like it, they hate their job but are afraid of losing it, it's normal that they should have the face they have.

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It happens to everyone, especially to the young, to think of having the world by the neck, and sometimes it's true. But at the same moment that someone is convinced everything is going for the best, there are some statistical laws that work at their backs ready to rip them off.

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Nothing was ever in tune. People just blindly grabbed at whatever there was: communism, health foods, zen, surfing, ballet, hypnotism, group encounters, orgies, biking, herbs, Catholicism, weight-lifting, travel, withdrawal, vegetarianism, India, painting, writing, sculpting, composing, conducting, backpacking, yoga, copulating, gambling, drinking, hanging around, frozen yogurt, Beethoven, Bach, Buddha, Christ, TM, H, carrot juice, suicide, handmade suits, jet travel, New York City, and then it all evaporated and fell apart. People had to find things to do while waiting to die. I guess it was nice to have a choice.

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Show me a man who lives alone and has a perpetually clean kitchen, and eight times out of nine I'll show you a man with detestable spiritual qualities.

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Every man is a poet.

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The free soul is rare, but you know it when you see it - basically because you feel good, very good, when you are near or with them.