“ And so, we become quiet. it is another strange evening. The people come to me, they talk, they fill me: the future rabbis, the revolutionaries with their rifles, the FBI, the whores, the poetesses, the young poets from Cal State, a professor from Loyola going to Michigan, a professor from the University of Cal at Berkeley, another who lives in riverside, 3 or 4 boys on the road, plain bums with Bukowski books stashed in their brains...for a while I thought that this gang would intrude upon and murder my precious moments, but I’ve been lucky, lucky for each man and each woman has brought me something and left me something, and I no longer must feel like Jeffers behind a stone wall, and I’ve been lucky in another way for what fame I have is largely hidden and quiet and I’ll hardly be a Henry Miller with people camping in my front lawn, the gods have been very good to me, they’ve kept me alive and even, still kicking, taking notes, observing, feeling the goodness of good people, feeling the miracle run up my arm like a crazy mouse. Such a life, given to me at the age of 48, even though tomorrow does not know is the sweetest of the sweet dreams.”
Charles Bukowski -Book: Tales of ordinary madness-
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