In **Ars Longa, Vita Brevis**, Lewis Laphalm declares:
Writers happen by accident, not by design.
Lewis omits the possibility of designing accidents.
Bukowski looks like a good instance of an accident by design.
See for instance So You Want to Be a Writer?
Any technique, however worthy and desirable, becomes a disease when the mind is obsessed with it.
Narrow-Minded
My knowledge is limited, my mind puny. I tried hard, I studied, I read many books. And nothing. In my home books spill from the shelves, they lie in piles on furniture, on the floor, barring the passage from room to room. I cannot, of course, read them all, yet my wolfish eyes constantly crave new titles. In truth, my feeling of limitation is not permanent. Only from time to time an awareness flares of how narrow our imagination is, as if the bones of our skull were too thick and did not allow the mind to get hold of what should be its domain. I should know everything that's happening at this moment, at every point on the earth. I should be able to penetrate the thoughts of my contemporaries and of people who lived a few generations ago, and two thousand and eight thousand years ago. I should, so what?
[Czeslaw Milosz, **Road-Side Dog**]