Charles Bukowski

“Something else is hurting you - that’s why you need pot or whiskey, or whips and rubber suits, or screaming music turned so fucking loud you can’t think.”

Eu estava sozinho comigo mesmo. E, por mais repugnante que fosse, era melhor que estar com alguém, qualquer um, todos lá fora fazendo seus pequenos truques e piruetas. Puxei as cobertas até o pescoço e esperei.

Afinal de contas, eu tinha feito tudo que me havia proposto na vida. Dera os passos certos. Não dormia na rua. Claro, havia um bocado de gente boa dormindo nas ruas. Não eram idiotas, apenas não se encaixavam na maquinaria necessária no momento. E essas necessidades viviam mudando. Era uma luta desigual, e se a gente dormia na própria cama já era uma preciosa vitória contra as forças. Eu tivera sorte, mas alguns dos passos que dera não os dera inteiramente sem pensar. Em geral, porém, era um mundo horrível, e eu muitas vezes me sentia tristes pelos outros. Bem, ao diabo com isso. Peguei a vodca e tomei um trago.

"Nothing can save you except writing. It keeps the walls from failing."

“Something else is hurting you - that’s why you need pot or whiskey, or whips and rubber suits, or screaming music turned so fucking loud you can’t think.”

“Of course it’s possible to love a human being if you don’t know them too well.”

I had no idea how I was going to escape. At least the others had some taste for life. They seemed to understand something that I didn’t understand. Maybe I was lacking. It was possible. I often felt inferior. I just wanted to get away from them. But there was no place to go.

desde cedo decidi ser escritor pensei que esse seria o caminho mais fácil para escapar

… I was often jealous, but when I saw things working against me I simply became disgusted and withdrew.

You get so alone sometimes that it all make sense

Notice how he smiles in the end, like "Ooops, I`ve done it again, turned some corny bullshit cliché into world class poetry"…