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the gas line is leaking, the bird is gone from the cage, the skyline is dotted with vultures; Benny finally got off the stuff and Betty now has a job as a waitress; and the chimney sweep was quite delicate as he giggled up through the soot. I walked miles through the city and recognized nothing as a giant claw ate at my stomach while the inside of my head felt airy as if I was about to go mad. its not so much that nothing means anything but more that it keeps meaning nothing, theres no release, just gurus and self- appointed gods and hucksters. the more people say, the less there is to say. even the best books are dry sawdust.
—from "fingernails; nostrils; shoelaces"
About the Author
Charles Bukowski is one of America's best-known contemporary writers of poetry and prose, and, many would claim, its most influential and imitated poet. He was born in Andernach, Germany, and raised in Los Angeles, where he lived for fifty years. He published his first story in 1944, when he was twenty-four, and began writing poetry at the age of thirty-five. He died in San Pedro, California, on March 9, 1994, at the age of seventy-three, shortly after completing his last novel, Pulp.