raymond carver.
before starting this collection of stories,
i'd only read "a small, good thing."
which was good and sad by itself.
it's kind of hard to describe what reading
raymond carver is like. it's sort of like
chewing your way through a bag of
pretzels. they're small, and not great,
and at the end, you feel full of nothing,
but for some reason, there's pleasure in
the constant, continual, small munching.
and you feel you've gotten something.
i doubt that really means much. i should probably
come up with a better comparison.
well, this collection is entirely too obsessed with
emptiness and sex and really sad people.
and yet, i could probably learn a thing or two
from him about how to tell a story well, simply, sparingly.
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