There were always men looking for jobs in America. There were always all these usable bodies. And I wanted to be a writer. Almost everybody was a writer. Not everybody thought they could be a dentist or an automobile mechanic but everybody knew they could be a writer. Of those fifty guys in the room, probably fifteen of them thought they were writers. Almost everybody used words and could write them down, i. e., almost everybody could be a writer. But most men, fortunately, aren't writers, or even cab drivers, and some men - many men - unfortunately aren't anything.
Charles BukowskiAbout author
- Author's profession: Author, Writer, Poet
- Nationality: american
- Born: August 16, 1920
- Died: March 9, 1994
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She turned. Azzie could see the rudimentary wings sprouting from her back. They were whiter than mourning doves, whiter than foam from untrammeled seas. They were tiny now, but they would grow. She had become a Creature of Light."That's disgusting," Azzie said. "You'll regret this, I promise you.
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