Quote

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.

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
Literature
Brink
Felt
Classes
Also
Discovery
Kind
Took
Never
Huge
Philosophy
Came
Class
Ralph

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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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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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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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I guess my writing has changed as my life has.
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Isak Dinesen said that she wrote a little every day, without hope and without despair. I like that.
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She won't give him back his look.
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You've got to work with your mistakes until they look intended. Understand?
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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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Get in, get out. Don't linger. Go on.
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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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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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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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What good are insights? They only make things worse.
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Happiness. It comes on unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really, any early morning talk about it.
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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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You're a beautiful drunk, daughter. But you're a drunk.
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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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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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