‘There´s nothing to mourn about death any more than there is to mourn about the growing of a flower. What is terrible is not death but the lives people live or don´t live up until their death. They don´t honor their own lives, they piss on their lives. They shit them away. Dumb fuckers. They concentrate too much on fucking, movies, money, family, fucking. Their mindes are full of cotton. They swallow God without thinking, they swallow country without thinking. Soon they forget how to think, they let others think for them. Their brains are stuffed with cotton. They look ugly, they talk ugly, they walk ugly. Play them the great music of the centuries and they can´t hear it. Most people´s deaths are a sham. Thare´s nothing left to die.’

‘Now, I am writing and writing and writing, the older I get the more I write, dancing with death. Good show. And I think the stuff is all right. One day they´ll say, Bukowski is dead,” and then I will be truly discovered and hung from stinking bright lampposts. So what? Immortality is the stupid invention of the living.’

Charles Bukowski