A prolific author, Charles Bukowski wrote thousands of poems, hundreds of short stories, and six novels.
He sat in his cell tapping his fingers on the bottle, thinking, its very sporting of them to give me this bottle. When he tapped at the glass it felt good on his fingers, spreading them a bit so, and getting the cool, clean touch. He had used whiskey before, found it made life bearable; took off the edge; was a good wash for minds that turned too fast: culling it, slowing it, settling it to a visible mark.
The one in the chair smiled. Her teeth were very white. You have such good taste. Almost all of Beethoven, and Brahms, and Bach and Yes, said Larry. Yes, thank you. He turned to the other nun. Wont you sit down? he asked. But she didnt move.