Again he doesn’t miss. I have to say that I found the essay “Fires” truly and deeply moving. It was as if the words on the page had the power to reach out and touch my very soul. The author's description of the fires was so vivid and detailed that I could almost smell the smoke and feel the heat. It was a powerful reminder of the destructive force of nature and the vulnerability of humanity. The way the author wove together personal experiences and broader themes made the essay not only engaging but also thought-provoking. I found myself reflecting on my own relationship with nature and the importance of protecting it. Overall, “Fires” was an outstanding piece of writing that left a lasting impression on me.

People were used to leaning their heads towards Carver to hear him better. Carver, rather than speaking loudly, would murmur and whisper. This was partly due to shyness and partly to humility. It was also in respect for the language, which made him handle words, both written and spoken, with great caution. As if it were almost impossible to say what one wanted. As if it were even dangerous.

Despite having taught creative writing for years, he seemed ill-suited to be a teacher: he didn't insist, didn't assert forcefully, preferred to listen rather than give lectures, didn't even consider the idea that among his duties was to discourage an untalented student, didn't know how to crush, and was deeply empathetic with everything his students submitted to him. However, this didn't prevent him from being rigorously analytical in the revision work: he would spend hours and hours on the works produced by his students, version after version, discussing word by word, punctuation marks, and spaces.

The father was called Clevie Raymond Carver, and for his friends, C.R. (Si Ar). The son, on the other hand, was Raymond Clevie Carver Junior. Carver hated being called Junior (which became GeiAr). It was okay as long as his father called him Frog (ranocchio). But then when ranocchio seemed too affectionate, they started calling him junior. This really didn't please Carver, and at the age of 13 or 14, he announced that he wouldn't respond anymore if he was called that. From that moment on, until his death, for his father, he became Doc – or, son.

What follows in italics refers to his father.

Then he died. I was very far away, in Iowa City, and I still had things to say to him.

I thought I would remember everything that was said and done that day and maybe that I would find a way to say it one day or another. But it wasn't like that. I forgot everything, or almost.

Father, I love you,
but how can I thank you, I who can't even stand alcohol,
and who don't even know the good places to fish?

The details of the poem are authentic, except for the fact that dad died in June and not in October, as the first word of the poem says. I wanted a word with more than one syllable to slow it down a bit. But more than that, I wanted a month suitable for what I was feeling at the moment when I wrote the poem, a month of short days and fading light, of smoke in the air, of things that are consumed. June was days and nights of summer, maturity, my wedding anniversary, the birthday of one of my children. June wasn't a month when fathers die.

In fact, my father died at the end of September, at the beginning of autumn.