We’re All Going to Die – Bukowski’s Brutal Truth About Love, Death, and the Human Circus

A lit cigarette rests in a glass ashtray, with smoke rising and forming the shape of a human skull in the air above—symbolizing death, decay, and the fleeting nature of life in a dark, moody, vanitas-style composition.

“We’re all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn’t.”

is a brutal and brilliant observation on human contradiction — the absurdity of life and the failure of empathy, even in the face of our shared mortality.

Line by line:

“We’re all going to die, all of us,”

He begins with an undeniable truth: death is universal. It’s the great equalizer. No status, wealth, belief, or achievement can save us from it. Everyone — kings and beggars, lovers and liars — will face the same end.

“what a circus!”

He calls it a circus, mocking the way we carry on — as if life were a performance, a parade of vanity, drama, distraction, and ego. Instead of taking this sobering truth as a call for wisdom, most of us spin it into spectacle. We waste time, hurt each other, chase nonsense.

“That alone should make us love each other...”

If we were awake to the reality of death — truly awake — it should create compassion. We should see ourselves in others. Knowing we’re all walking the same path toward the grave should bring humility and kindness. It should make grudges seem foolish, and love feel urgent.

“...but it doesn’t.”

Here’s the heartbreak. It doesn’t. Despite everything — despite our fragility, our suffering, our shared fate — most people still choose cruelty, pettiness, indifference, pride. Bukowski is mourning that truth. It’s not just sad — it’s absurd. A kind of existential tragedy.

The Meaning:

Bukowski is holding up a mirror to the human condition. He’s not offering answers — he’s punching through illusion. He’s saying: We have every reason to be kind to one another. Death is coming. But still, we act like fools. That’s the circus.

It’s a cry for deeper awareness — and maybe, for a quieter, more honest kind of love.

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Talking to Death: Bukowski’s Pocket-Sized Memento Mori

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“The End of Everything False: Bukowski’s Door to Death”