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The Carpetbaggers
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The Bell Curve: I...
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Book cover for Letters from the Earth: Uncensored Writings
He concedes that God gives to each man his temperament, his disposition, at birth; he concedes that man cannot by any process change this temperament, but must remain always under its dominion. Yet if it be full of dreadful passions, in one ...more
Ron
He concedes that God gives to each man his temperament, his disposition, at birth; he concedes that man cannot by any process change this temperament, but must remain always under its dominion. Yet if it be full of dreadful passions, in one man's case, and barren of them in another man's, it is right and rational to punish the one for his crimes, and reward the other for abstaining from crime.
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Charles Bukowski
“did you ever consider that lsd and color TV arrived for our consumption around the same time? Here comes all this explorative color pounding, and what do we do? we outlaw one and fuck up the other.”
Charles Bukowski, Tales of Ordinary Madness

Charles Bukowski
“That girl enjoyed everything that bored me and everything that I enjoyed bored her. We were the perfect mates: what kept us going was the tolerable and intolerable distance between us. We kept meeting each day—and each night—with nothing solved and no chance to solve it. Perfection.”
Charles Bukowski, Shakespeare Never Did This

Cormac McCarthy
“The flowered crown to all other abominations. A walkin plague in your own house. That’s what’s been”
Cormac McCarthy, Outer Dark

Gabriel García Márquez
“... that the past is one lie, and the memory has no returning, becouse every old spring is beyond retrieve, and even the craziest and most persistent love is just a temporary truth...”
Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude

Gabriel García Márquez
“Nunca me he enamorado, le dije. Ella replicó en el acto: Yo sí. Y terminó sin interrumpir su oficio: Lloré veintidós años por usted. El corazón me dio un salto. Buscando una salida digna, le dije: Hubiéramos sido una buena yunta. Pues hace mal en decírmelo ahora, dijo ella, porque ya no me sirve ni de consuelo.”
Gabriel García Márquez, Memoria de mis putas tristes

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