Why are there so few interesting people? Out of the millions, why aren’t there a few? Must we continue to live with this drab and ponderous species? Seems their only act is violence. They are so good at that. They truly blossom. Shit flowers, stinking up our chance. Problem is, I must continue to interact with them. That is, if I want to flush the toilet, buy a new tire, get a tooth pulled or my gut cut open, I must continue to interact. I need the fuckers for the minute necessities, even if they, themselves appall me. And appall is a kind word.
But they pound on my consciousness with their failure in vital areas. For instance, every day as I drive to the track I keep punching the radio to different stations looking for music, decent music. It’s all bad, flat, lifeless, tuneless, listless. Yet some of these compositions sell in the millions and their creators consider themselves true Artists. It’s horrible, horrible drivel entering the minds of young heads. They like it. Christ, hand them shit, they eat it up. Can’t they discern? Can’t they hear? Can’t they feel the dilution, the staleness?"
written by Charles Bukowski (via thechocolatebrigade)