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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.

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
First
Wife
Time
Happened
Love
Wish
Life
Hate
Like
Tell
Someone
Guts
Thought
Explain
Firsts
Loved

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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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You have to have been in love to write poetry.
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I am a cigarette with a body attached to it
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Happiness. It comes on unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really, any early morning talk about it.
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My life is going to change. I feel it.
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There is no God, and conversation is a dying art.
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Dreams, you know, are what you wake up from.
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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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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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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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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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Life and death matters, yes. And the question of how to behave in this world, how to go in the face of everything. Time is short and the water is rising.
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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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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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Isak Dinesen said that she wrote a little every day, without hope and without despair. I like that.
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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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She won't give him back his look.
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I am too nervous to eat pie.
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Honey, no offense, but sometimes I think I could shoot you and watch you kick.
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