There are women who can make you feel more with their bodies and

In the words of Charles Bukowski, “There are women who can make you feel more with their bodies and their souls, but these are the exact women who will turn the knife into you right in front of the crowd. Of course, I expect this, but the knife still cuts.” we hear the voice of a man who lived on the edge of longing and despair, who drank deeply from the cup of passion, and who often found that its sweetness carried with it the sting of betrayal. Bukowski, the poet of the gutter and the prophet of loneliness, speaks here of the paradox of intimacy—that those who lift us to the highest peaks of feeling are also those who have the power to wound us most profoundly.

The origin of this quote lies in Bukowski’s life of tumultuous relationships, his affairs with women who were muses and destroyers alike. For him, women were not distant ideals but raw forces of nature, embodiments of both ecstasy and cruelty. His words are not a condemnation of all women, but a confession of his own entanglement with those whose intensity of soul left him both exalted and broken. To be given such fire is a blessing, but it is also to live with the risk of being burned.

History itself confirms this truth. Consider the story of Cleopatra, who captivated Julius Caesar and Mark Antony with her brilliance, beauty, and will. She could move empires with her presence, but her entanglements brought both men to ruin. Caesar fell to assassination, Antony to despair and death. The same woman who gave them glory also sharpened the knife that fate drove into their hearts. Passion and destruction walked hand in hand, just as Bukowski describes.

The deeper meaning of this lament is that intimacy is inseparable from vulnerability. To open oneself to another’s soul is to hand them the blade that can pierce one’s heart. Bukowski’s words capture the irony of love: we expect betrayal, for we know the risk, yet when it comes, it still cuts as though we were unprepared. Love’s sweetness blinds us to its cruelty, and even foreknowledge cannot dull the pain. Thus he writes with both resignation and astonishment: “Of course, I expect this, but the knife still cuts.”

Yet there is also something heroic in these words. For Bukowski is not advocating withdrawal, nor warning against passion. He accepts the inevitability of the wound as part of the price of feeling deeply. To live without the risk of the knife is to live without the fire of passion, without the ecstasy of those rare connections that awaken both body and spirit. Better, perhaps, to be cut and scarred, but to have lived in the fullness of desire, than to be safe and untouched but cold.

The lesson for us, O listener, is clear: do not enter into love expecting it to be safe. To love is to risk heartbreak, to trust is to risk betrayal. And yet, these risks are not reasons to avoid intimacy, but reasons to approach it with courage and awareness. If the wound comes, let it teach you strength; if the betrayal arrives, let it sharpen your wisdom. But do not close yourself forever to those who bring fire, for without them, life becomes a desert.

As for practical action: when you give your heart, do so with eyes open. Do not idolize another so completely that their betrayal destroys you utterly. Know that passion may bring both joy and sorrow, and prepare your soul to endure both. And when wounded, do not let the bitterness of the knife rob you of your capacity to feel. Instead, wear your scars as proof that you dared to live fully, that you embraced the dangerous beauty of intimacy rather than fleeing from it.

Thus, Bukowski’s words endure as both lament and counsel. “There are women… who will turn the knife into you…” He speaks with the voice of one who knew the sweetness and the agony of love’s paradox. His teaching to us is not to flee passion, but to accept its double-edged nature. For love is both the fire that warms and the blade that cuts—and to live fully is to accept both with equal courage.