"I loved you like a man loves a woman he never touches, only writes to, keeps little photographs of."

Bukowski, where do I begin. A brilliant writer, bitter, and misogynistic. A derogatory hedonist toward women. A sick, twisted fuck. But we knew that going into this, right?

It's challenging to enter into an author's mind at a specific era when morals and values were exponentially different now than they were back then. (For most, at least). His writing is cathartic and humiliating and makes me want to vomit sometimes. But he's brutally honest. A dog. But an honest one.

"there is a loneliness in this world so great that you can see it in the slow movement of the hands of a clock."
His loneliness is palpable. Something I can certainly relate to.

Here's another:
"I'm going, she said. I love you, but you're
crazy, you're doomed."

Bukowski knows he's insane and fucked up and miserable and awful.

I'll take the beautifully written one-liners interwoven between trashy layers of misogyny. I'll bury the rest.