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She won't give him back his look.

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
Looks
Giving
Give
Back
Look

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I guess my writing has changed as my life has.
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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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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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Dreams, you know, are what you wake up from.
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You have to have been in love to write poetry.
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I am too nervous to eat pie.
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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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Get in, get out. Don't linger. Go on.
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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 was this funny thing of anything could happen now that we realized everything had.
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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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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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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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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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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 dressed and went for a walk - determined not to return until I took in what Nature had to offer.
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Happiness. It comes on unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really, any early morning talk about it.
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You're a beautiful drunk, daughter. But you're a drunk.
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I am a cigarette with a body attached to it
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