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You're a beautiful drunk, daughter. But you're a drunk.

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
Drunk
Daughter
Beautiful

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Dreams, you know, are what you wake up from.
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Get in, get out. Don't linger. Go on.
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Honey, no offense, but sometimes I think I could shoot you and watch you kick.
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What good are insights? They only make things worse.
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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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She won't give him back his look.
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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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My life is going to change. I feel it.
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I'm always learning something. Learning never ends.
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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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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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Happiness. It comes on unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really, any early morning talk about it.
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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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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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All of us, all of us, all of us trying to save our immortal souls, some ways seemingly more round about and mysterious than others. We are having a good time here. But hope all will be revealed soon.
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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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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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That's all we have, finally, the words, and they had better be the right ones.
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There was this funny thing of anything could happen now that we realized everything had.
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The fiction Im most interested in has lines of reference to the real world.
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