Raymond Carver Quotes
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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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You've got to work with your mistakes until they look intended. Understand?
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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 places where water comes together with other water. Those places stand out in my mind like holy places.
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Woke up this morning with a terrific urge to lie in bed all day and read.
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He wondered if she wondered if he were watching her.
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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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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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I've crossed some kind of invisible line. I feel as if I've come to a place I never thought I'd have to come to. And I don't know how I got here. It's a strange place. It's a place where a little harmless dreaming and then some sleepy, early-morning talk has led me into considerations of death and annihilation.
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If we're lucky, writer and reader alike, we'll finish the last line or two of a short story and then just sit for a minute, quietly. Ideally, we'll ponder what we've just written or read; maybe our hearts or intellects will have been moved off the peg just a little from where they were before. Our body temperature will have gone up, or down, by a degree. Then, breathing evenly and steadily once more, we'll collect ourselves, writers and readers alike, get up, "created of warm blood and nerves" as a Chekhov character puts it, and go on to the next thing: Life. Always life.
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That's all we have, finally, the words, and they had better be the right ones.
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There are significant moments in everyone's day that can make literature. That's what you ought to write about.
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And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth.
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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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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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It's akin to style, what I'm talking about, but it isn't style alone. It is the writer's particular and unmistakable signature on everything he writes. It is his world and no other. This is one of the things that distinguishes one writer from another. Not talent. There's plenty of that around. But a writer who has some special way of looking at things and who gives artistic expression to that way of looking: that writer may be around for a time.
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It's possible, in a poem or short story, to write about commonplace things and objects using commonplace but precise language, and to endow those things—a chair, a window curtain, a fork, a stone, a woman's earring—with immense, even startling power.
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I'm always learning something. Learning never ends.
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Dreams, you know, are what you wake up from.
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Happiness. It comes on unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really, any early morning talk about it.
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Art doesn't have to do anything. It just has to be there for the fierce pleasure we take in doing 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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Get in, get out. Don't linger. Go on.
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Write about what you know, and what do you know better than your own secrets?