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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.
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
Next
Pull
Light
Pick
Stills
Picks
Still
Stones
Trouser
Made
Sea
Examine
Blue
Pocket
Moon
Smooth
Morning
Pockets
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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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I am too nervous to eat pie.
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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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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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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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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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That's all we have, finally, the words, and they had better be the right ones.
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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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Don’t complain, don’t explain.
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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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I guess my writing has changed as my life has.
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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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