What my character is or how many jails I have lounged in, or

Charles Bukowski, the raw and unflinching bard of the streets, once declared: “What my character is or how many jails I have lounged in, or wards or walls or wassails, how many lonely-heart poetry readings I have dodged, is beside the point. A man's soul or lack of it will be evident with what he can carve upon a white sheet of paper.” In this defiant statement, he shatters the illusions of reputation and biography. He reminds us that what matters is not the gossip of one’s past, nor the spectacle of one’s failings, but the soul revealed through the act of creation. For the page, more than any courtroom or public stage, is where a man is judged.

The origin of this saying lies in Bukowski’s own tumultuous life. Born in Germany and raised in the harsh streets of Los Angeles, he carried scars from poverty, alcoholism, violence, and solitude. Critics and admirers alike often obsessed over his character, his debauchery, his reckless living. Yet Bukowski dismissed such concerns. To him, the white page was the only true measure. One might stumble in alleys, fail in relationships, rot in wards, or dodge the pretensions of literary gatherings—but none of these mattered. What endured, what stood as testimony, was what the writer could carve upon a white sheet of paper.

Consider the life of Fyodor Dostoevsky, the Russian master. Condemned to death, imprisoned in Siberia, broken by illness and debt, Dostoevsky was surrounded by scandal and hardship. By Bukowski’s measure, none of this defined him. What defined him were the pages he filled—Crime and Punishment, The Brothers Karamazov—works that carved the deepest truths of guilt, redemption, and faith into the heart of humanity. His past might have shamed him; his weaknesses might have destroyed him; but his soul, inscribed in words, revealed greatness that could not be denied.

Bukowski’s words also strike at the arrogance of those who seek to elevate the man over the work. He despised the cult of personality, the adoration of poets for their lifestyle rather than their lines. He believed, fiercely, that literature was not about parading one’s biography, but about offering the distilled truth of one’s being upon the page. The world may sneer at the writer’s flaws, but the page is merciless: if there is no soul in the words, the work dies, regardless of the life lived. If there is truth, then the work stands, regardless of scandal or shame.

The meaning of the quote burns with a deeper fire: art is revelation of the soul. Not the polished mask we show the world, not the excuses we give for our failures, but the essence that bleeds through ink. On the white sheet, no deception lasts. The cowardice, the emptiness, or the courage and depth of the soul will be evident, line by line. The paper is both judge and confessor, exposing what the man truly is, not what he pretends to be.

The lesson for us is clear: do not obsess over appearances, nor over the judgments of others. Instead, focus on what you create, on what you bring forth from within. A reputation may rise and fall, but the soul revealed through your work will outlive both praise and slander. To live as an artist—or indeed as a human being—is to carve your essence into the world in whatever form you can. Let that carving speak for you more loudly than your biography ever could.

Practically, this means devoting yourself to authenticity. When you write, paint, build, or speak, let your work come from your deepest self, not from the desire to impress. Do not fear the flaws of your character, for all men are flawed. Fear only the emptiness of a page that carries no soul. Strive to make your work a true reflection of what you are, even if it is rough, even if it is raw. For in honesty lies power, and in power lies endurance.

Thus Bukowski’s words remain like a scrawled testament on the walls of time: “A man’s soul or lack of it will be evident with what he can carve upon a white sheet of paper.” Let this be the standard by which we measure ourselves—not by wealth, not by reputation, not by the indulgences of our past, but by what we dare to inscribe in our moment of creation. For the page never lies, and through it, the soul is made eternal.