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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.
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
Ordinary
Hooks
Doors
Hook
Came
Fifty
Looking
Sell
House
Sells
Hands
Photograph
Without
Door
Men
Except
Chrome
More quotes by Raymond Carver
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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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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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 was this funny thing of anything could happen now that we realized everything had.
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Dreams, you know, are what you wake up from.
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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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I am too nervous to eat pie.
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Every great or even every very good writer makes the world over according to his own specifications.
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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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A little autobiography and a lot of imagination are best.
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You have to have been in love to write poetry.
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You're a beautiful drunk, daughter. But you're a drunk.
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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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Honey, no offense, but sometimes I think I could shoot you and watch you kick.
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I'm always learning something. Learning never ends.
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I am a cigarette with a body attached to it
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That's all we have, finally, the words, and they had better be the right ones.
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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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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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Happiness. It comes on unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really, any early morning talk about it.
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