There are not enough lives in one man to conquer Art, let alone enough men in one world to criticize it.
perhaps the greatest achievement of Man is his ability to die, and his disability to regard it. certainly poetry and paint are no deterrent, nor the high hurdles of the mind over the skulls of his realism. let us say, finally, that truth is not all that matters- often, it is the putting aside of a truth.
past the desk with a face, past coffins filled with the love, past the sparrow sick with dreams
..I was still a poor bet for life, and the razors and the gas pipes and the bridges and Thomas Chatterton's rat poison were still arguing for first shot.
Portions from a wine- stained Notebook, Charles Bukowski.
A romantic idea of following a young poet's death, alters its grotesqueness.