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There is no answer. It's okay. But even if it wasn't okay, what am I supposed to do?
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
Supposed
Okay
Answer
Wasn
Answers
Even
Life
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There is no God, and conversation is a dying art.
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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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Remember Haydn's 104 symphonies. Not all of them were great. But there were 104 of them.
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A little autobiography and a lot of imagination are best.
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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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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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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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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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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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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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Dreams, you know, are what you wake up from.
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Happiness. It comes on unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really, any early morning talk about it.
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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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Every great or even every very good writer makes the world over according to his own specifications.
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I dressed and went for a walk - determined not to return until I took in what Nature had to offer.
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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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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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I am a cigarette with a body attached to it
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My life is going to change. I feel 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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