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Dreams, you know, are what you wake up from.
Raymond Carver
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Raymond Carver
Age: 50 †
Born: 1938
Born: May 25
Died: 1988
Died: August 2
Author
Novelist
Poet
Prosaist
Screenwriter
Writer
Clatskanie
Oregon
Wake
Dreams
Dream
More quotes by Raymond Carver
She won't give him back his look.
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In the beginning, when I was trying to write, I couldnt turn off the outside world to the extent that I can now.
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There was a time when I thought I loved my first wife more than life itself. But now I hate her guts. I do. How do you explain that? What happened to that love? What happened to it, is what I'd like to know. I wish someone could tell me.
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I am too nervous to eat pie.
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Woke up this morning with a terrific urge to lie in bed all day and read. Fought against it for a minute. Then looked out the window at the rain. And gave over. Put myself entirely in the keep of this rainy morning. Would I live my life over again? Make the same unforgivable mistakes? Yes, given half a chance. Yes.
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I'm always learning something. Learning never ends.
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Get in, get out. Don't linger. Go on.
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My heart is broken,” she goes. “It’s turned to a piece of stone. I’m no good. That’s what’s as bad as anything, that I’m no good anymore.
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Anyone can express himself or herself, but what writers and poets want to do in their work, more than simply express themselves, is communicate.
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Don’t complain, don’t explain.
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What good are insights? They only make things worse.
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A little autobiography and a lot of imagination are best.
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A man without hands came to the door to sell me a photograph of my house. Except for the chrome hooks, he was an ordinary-looking man of fifty or so.
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When a reader finishes a wonderful story and lays it aside, he should have to pause for a minute and collect himself.
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Honey, no offense, but sometimes I think I could shoot you and watch you kick.
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You have to have been in love to write poetry.
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I could hear my heart beating. I could hear everyone's heart. I could hear the human noise we sat there making, not one of us moving, not even when the room went dark.
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I guess my writing has changed as my life has.
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The smooth stones you pick up and examine under the moon's light have been made blue from the sea. Next morning when you pull them from your trouser pocket, they are still blue.
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This is awful. I don't know what's going to happen to me or to anyone else in the world.
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