February 21, 2018
Raymond Carver's Two LivesRaymond Carver's widow, the American poet and short story writer Tess Gallagher, tells the story of going through Carver's clothes shortly after he died and finding a folded piece of paper in one of the pockets. On it Carver had written his last "errand list":
Whether a personal note or a planning fragment for one of his stories, this is classic Carver. He grew up in the 1940s and 50s among the unemployed and working poor of the Pacific Northwest. He was married while still a teenager, and had two kids by the time he was twenty. A dozen years of part-time jobs, part-time school, part-time writing and full-time parenting eventually took their toll: two bankruptcies, a marriage breaking up, and a doomed feeling of "unrelieved responsibility and permanent distraction" from which there seemed no escape.
Out of such lives and such feelings -- with, as one critic puts it, "an eye so clear it almost breaks your heart" -- Carver was eventually to craft stories which are now placed among the masterpieces of American short fiction. But at the time, in the 1960s and early 70s, the chronic burdens of poverty and parenting were so acute that, he said later, he'd "rather take poison than go through it all again."
What he did take was alcohol, and plenty of it. His father had too, and by gene or example the son seemed bound to the path. In Carver's poem "Luck" we witness a 9-year-old waking up to the aftermath of his parents' party -- a house empty of people and full of opportunity:
had put out a cigarette
in a jar of mustard.
I had a straight shot
from the bottle, then
a drink of warm collins mix,
then another whiskey.
And though I went from room
to room, no one was home.
What luck, I thought.
I still wanted to give up
friends, love, starry skies,
for a house where no one
was home, no one coming back,
and all I could drink.
But then, somehow, yet another attempt to quit seemed to stick. In his poem "Rogue River Jet-Boat Trip, Gold Beach, Oregon, July 4, 1977" -- written after a month without a drink -- Carver seems to ask for this new luck to last:
deer, marten, osprey, the site
of the Mick Smith massacre --
a man who slaughtered his family,
who burnt his house down around his ears --
a fried chicken dinner.
I am not drinking. For this
you have put on your wedding ring and driven
500 miles to see for yourself.
This light dazzles. I fill my lungs
as if these last years
were nothing, a little overnight portage.
We sit in the bow of the jet-boat
and you make small talk with the guide.
He asks where we're from, but seeing
our confusion, becomes
confused himself and tells us
he has a glass eye and we
should try to guess which is which.
His good eye, the left, is brown, is
steady of purpose, and doesn't
miss a thing. Not long past
I would have snagged it out
just for its warmth, youth and purpose,
and because it lingers on your breasts.
Now, I no longer know what's mine, what
isn't. I no longer know anything except
I am not drinking -- though I'm still weak
and sick from it. The engine starts.
The guide attends the wheel.
Spray rises and falls on all sides
as we head upriver.
"Late Fragment," his last-written poem, shows him grateful for the double-life that he knew was over:
you wanted from this life, even so?
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.
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