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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
Going
World
Awful
Happen
Anyone
Else
Happens

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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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You're a beautiful drunk, daughter. But you're a drunk.
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A little autobiography and a lot of imagination are best.
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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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Dreams, you know, are what you wake up from.
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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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Ralph also took some classes in philosophy and literature and felt himself on the brink of some kind of huge discovery about himself. But it never came.
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I guess my writing has changed as my life has.
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You're...writing for other writers to an extent-the dead writers whose work you admire, as well as the living writers you like to read.
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That's all we have, finally, the words, and they had better be the right ones.
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It's strange. You never start out life with the intention of becoming a bankrupt or an alcoholic or a cheat and a thief. Or a liar.
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Happiness. It comes on unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really, any early morning talk about it.
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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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She won't give him back his look.
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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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We knew our days were numbered. We had fouled up our lives and we were getting ready for a shake-up.
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Don’t complain, don’t explain.
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Remember Haydn's 104 symphonies. Not all of them were great. But there were 104 of them.
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Honey, no offense, but sometimes I think I could shoot you and watch you kick.
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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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