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Although relatable, domestic, and truly sincere in showing the edges of a house and the characters who live in such a domain, I am not nearly convinced by Raymond Carver's content, whether in style or the themes he wants to point out. His voice feels like that of a second-rate Hemingway. To be earnest, Ernest Hemingway is simply better. Raymond's works are manly, that's true enough. However, he has been so limited in being lyrical. His minimalist prose doesn't convey literary merit in the same way that Hemingway had done. There are no journalistic excursions, nor a higher human evaluation present. There is no art along the words, except for the exact experiences of American life, which are told in a dull way. And his collection becomes even more absurd with his poems. I can't see, hear, or at least feel the music and the sorrowful sojourn of a poet here. It's as if he insisted his poems were poems, but to be honest, this is what Jose Garcia Villa lectured to his students back then in New York: "chopped up prose." It's a let-down. How come he is revered as one of America's greatest writers? If anyone below the Hemingway-esque writing is not considered literary, then why is Carver near the Lost Generation's Nobel Laureate? True literature perhaps has indeed been in decline when American literature was celebrated with the likes of Carver.