You know: I'm drunk once again here listening to Tchaikovsky on the radio. Jesus, I heard him 47 years ago when I was a starving writer and here he is again and now I am a minor success as a writer and death is walking up and down this room smoking my cigars taking hits of my wine as Tchaik is working away at the Pathetique, it's been some journey and any luck I've had was because I rolled the dice right: I starved for my art, I starved to gain 5 god-damned minutes, 5 hours, 5 days- I just wanted to get the word down; fame, money, didn't matter: I wanted the word down; and “they” wanted me to be a stock boy in a department store. Well, death says, as he walks by, I'm going to get you anyhow no matter what you've been: writer, cab driver, pimp, butcher, sky-diver, I'm going to get you… Ok baby, I tell him. We drink together now as one am slides to 2 a.m. and only he knows the moment, but I worked a con on him: I got my 5 god-damned minutes and much more.
You can find this in Bukowski’s fantastic book of poetry — The Last Night of the Earth Poems.
To do something well, truly well, costs nothing less than our all.
" I got my
5 god-damned minutes
and much
more."
That's the point. He did fulfill his drive, urge to write in spite of the detours and road blocks. He also got much more because of it. We readers did too.