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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.

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
World
Awful
Happen
Anyone
Else
Happens
Going

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I am a cigarette with a body attached to it
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Happiness. It comes on unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really, any early morning talk about it.
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But he stays by the window, remembering that life. They had laughed. They had leaned on each other and laughed until the tears had come, while everything else—the cold and where he'd go in it—was outside, for a while anyway.
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Don’t complain, don’t explain.
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A great danger, or at least a great temptation, for many writers is to become too autobiographical in their approach to their fiction. A little autobiography and a lot of imagination are best.
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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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That's all we have, finally, the words, and they had better be the right ones.
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Then I said something. I said, Suppose, just suppose, nothing had ever happened. Suppose this was for the first time. Just suppose. It doesn't hurt to suppose. Say none of the other had ever happened. You know what I mean? Then what? I said.
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Honey, no offense, but sometimes I think I could shoot you and watch you kick.
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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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There is no answer. It's okay. But even if it wasn't okay, what am I supposed to do?
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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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There is no God, and conversation is a dying art.
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What good are insights? They only make things worse.
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You're a beautiful drunk, daughter. But you're a drunk.
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there isn't enough of anything as long as we live. But at intervals a sweetness appears and, given a chance prevails.
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I am too nervous to eat pie.
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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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You have to have been in love to write poetry.
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