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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.
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
Pieces
Goes
Anything
Stone
Heart
Stones
Good
Anymore
Piece
Turned
Broken
More quotes by Raymond Carver
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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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 am too nervous to eat pie.
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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 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 a beautiful drunk, daughter. But you're a drunk.
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There's literary creation and literary business. When I first got something accepted, it gave my life a validation it didn't otherwise have.
Raymond Carver
I'm always learning something. Learning never ends.
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Get in, get out. Don't linger. Go on.
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When a reader finishes a wonderful story and lays it aside, he should have to pause for a minute and collect himself.
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Every great or even every very good writer makes the world over according to his own specifications.
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She won't give him back his look.
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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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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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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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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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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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Happiness. It comes on unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really, any early morning talk about it.
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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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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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