Quote

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.

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
Good
Save
Time
Soon
Seemingly
Ways
Revealed
Hope
Immortal
Others
Round
Soul
Rounds
Trying
Mysterious
Way
Souls

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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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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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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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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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There is no God, and conversation is a dying art.
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Fiction shows the external effects of internal conditions. Be aware of the tension between internal and external movement.
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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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My life is going to change. I feel it.
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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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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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I dressed and went for a walk - determined not to return until I took in what Nature had to offer.
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I think a little menace is fine to have in a story. For one thing, it's good for the circulation.
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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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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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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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Dreams, you know, are what you wake up from.
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Honey, no offense, but sometimes I think I could shoot you and watch you kick.
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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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I could hear my heart beating. I could hear everyone's heart. I could hear the human noise we sat there making, not one of us moving, not even when the room went dark.
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