In the motel room that night, in the early morning hours, he opened a curtain. Saw clouds banked against the moon. He leaned closer to the glass. Cold air passed through and put its hand over his heart. I loved you, he thought. Loved you well. Before loving you no longer. — Raymond Carver, from… Continue reading Raymond Carver
The light was draining out of the room, going back through the window where it had come from. — Raymond Carver, from “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love,” What We Talk About When We Talk About Love (Alfred A. Knopf, 1981)
I remember the morning I closed the lid on memory and turned the handle. Locking it away forever. Nobody knows what happened to me out here, sea. Only you and I know. At night, clouds form in front of the moon. By morning they’re gone. And that sweet light I spoke of? That’s gone too.… Continue reading Raymond Carver
There isn’t enough of anything as long as we live. But at intervals a sweetness appears and, given a chance, prevails. — Raymond Carver, from “The Author of Her Misfortune,” All of Us: The Collected Poems. (Vintage; Reprint edition, April 4, 1996) Originally published 1988.
My lungs are thick with the smoke of your absence. ― Raymond Carver, Where Water Comes Together with Other Water: Poems. (Vintage; 1 edition, March 12, 1986) Originally published 1984
How far would you run with a piece of lead in your heart? ― Raymond Carver, Where Water Comes Together with Other Water: Poems. (Vintage; 1 edition, March 12, 1986) Originally published 1984.
The mind can’t sleep, can only lie awake and gorge, listening to the snow gather as for some final assault. It wishes Chekhov were here to minister something – three drops of valerian, a glass of rose water – anything, it wouldn’t matter. The mind would like to get out of here onto the snow.… Continue reading Raymond Carver