American Culture · American Literature · Anthology · Classic · Collection · Compilation · Contemporary · Excerpt · Passage · Poetry

Raymond Carver

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

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American Culture · American Literature · Anthology · Classic · Collection · Compilation · Contemporary · Excerpt · Fragment · Passage · Poetry

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.

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American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Essay · Excerpt · Poetry · Short Stories

Raymond Carver

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

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American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Excerpt · Passage · Poetry

Raymond Carver

This morning there’s snow everywhere. We remark on it. You tell me you didn’t sleep well. I say I didn’t either. You had a terrible night. “Me too.” We’re extraordinarily calm and tender with each other as if sensing the other’s rickety state of mind. As if we knew what the other was feeling. We… Continue reading Raymond Carver

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American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Excerpt · Passage · Poetry

Raymond Carver

I talk to myself like this. Saying the names of things — capstan, hawser, loam, leaf, furnace. Your face, your mouth, your shoulder inconceivable to me now! Where did they go? It’s like I dreamed them.  The stones we brought home from the beach lie face up on the windowsill, cooling. Come home. Do you… Continue reading Raymond Carver

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