I can’t remember the first Raymond Carver story I read. “Cathedral” is a safe bet, but I can’t be sure. I only remember that, in my early twenties, when I began dreaming of a writing life in earnest, there he was. For writers like me (i.e. male millennial with a liberal arts degree) Carver has always been there, the patron saint of realism, the epitome of craft, a master of distilling life into language.
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