We don’t even ask happiness, just a little less pain. — Charles Bukowski
We don’t even ask happiness, just a little less pain. — Charles Bukowski
We don’t even ask happiness, just a little less pain. — Charles Bukowski
We don’t even ask happiness, just a little less pain. — Charles Bukowski
We don’t even ask happiness, just a little less pain. — Charles Bukowski
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We don’t even ask happiness, just a little less pain.

— Charles Bukowski
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More “Bukowski” Quotes

How are his poems?""He's not as good as he thinks he is, but then most of us feel that way. — Charles Bukowski, Hollywood
no concept of danger, reality, flow or compassion. you can feel the despair escaping from their machines, their lives as — Charles Bukowski, Sifting Through the Madness for the Word, the Line, the Way
My heart is a thousand years old. I am not like other people. — Charles Bukowski
The problem with the world is that the intelligent people are full of doubts while the stupid one are full of confidence — Charles Bukowski
Only the poor knew the meaning of life — the rich and the safe had to guess.
to ask them to legalize pot is something like asking them to put butter on the handcuffs before they place them on you, — Charles Bukowski, Tales of Ordinary Madness
Genius could be the ability to say a profound thing in a simple way, or even to say a simple thing in a simpler way. — Charles Bukowski, Portions from a Wine-Stained Notebook: Uncollected Stories and Essays, 1944-1990
peace of mind and heartarriveswhen we accept what is:having beenborn into thisstrange lifewe must acceptthe wasted gambl — Charles Bukowski, The Pleasures of the Damned
Frankly, I was horrified by life, at what a man had to do simply in order to eat, sleep, and keep himself clothed. So I — Charles Bukowski
Like anybody can tell you, I am not a very nice man. I don't know the word. I have always admired the villain, the outla — Charles Bukowski, South of No North
I guess the only time most people think about injustice is when it happens to them. — Charles Bukowski, Ham on Rye
I am sick with caring. — Charles Bukowski, The People Look Like Flowers at Last