“Basically, that’s why I wrote: to save my ass, to save my ass from the madhouse, from the streets, from myself.”

“I paid, got up, walkedto the door, openedit.I heard the mansay, “that guy’snuts.”out on the street Iwalked northfeelingcuriouslyhonored.”

“It got so bad that Al thoughtmaybe it washimso he went to a shrinkand askedand the shrink said,”you’re one of the sanest menI’ve ever met.”poor Al.that made him feelworse than ever.”

“I remember yoursaying: “make itor break it.”neither happened anditwon’t.”

“I believe that to be the world’s greatest livingwriterthere must be somethingterribly wrong with you.I don’t even want to be the world’s greatestdead writer.just being dead would be fairenough.”

“that your power of commandwith simple language wasone of the magnificent things ofour century.(from the poem: result)”

“where some god pissed a rain of reason to make things grow only to die,”

“La mayoría de la muerte de la gente es una farsa, no queda en ellos nada que pueda morir”

“I see a brightportionunder the overhead lightthat shades intodarknessand then into darkerdarknessand I can’t see beyond that.”

“as long as there arehuman beings aboutthere is never going to beany peacefor any individualupon this earth (oranywhere elsethey mightescape to).all you can dois maybe grabten lucky minuteshereor maybe an hourthere.somethingis working toward youright now, andI mean youand nobody butyou.”

“sometimes when everything seems atits worstwhen all conspiresand gnawsand the hours, days, weeksyearsseem wasted – stretched there upon my bedin the darklooking upward at the ceilingi get what many will consider anobnoxious thought:it’s still nice to beBukowski.”

“There is only one place to write and that is alone at a typewriter. The writer who has to go into the streets is a writer who does not know the streets. . . when you leave your typewriter you leave your machine gun and the rats come pouring through.”

“the worst thing,” he told me,”is bitterness, people end up sobitter.”

“when we were kidslaying around the lawnon ourbellieswe often talkedabouthowwe’d like todieandwe allagreed on thesamething;we’d alllike to diefucking(althoughnone of ushaddone anyfucking)and nowthatwe are hardlykidsany longerwe think moreabouthownot todieandalthoughwe’rereadymost ofuswouldprefer todo italoneunder thesheetsnowthatmost ofushave fuckedour livesaway.”

“having nothing to struggleagainstthey have nothing to strugglefor.”