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For reasons that become increasingly clear to me as I age, Raymond Carver will always be my short story God. Having just put down Cathedral, I think I can put my finger on it a bit better than usual. So grab a beer, put your feet up—here’s the ashtray. I’m gonna do a little bit of testifying. As much as I’d like to be Rocketman or Ishmael, the fact of the matter is that I’m nothing more or less than a character in a Carver story. I’m an ordinary person, unexceptional in almost every way, both good and bad, just trying to get through today and maybe start worrying about tomorrow. I come from the working class. My childhood memories are filled with pop-top Coors and Camel non-filters, horseshoe pits, and sunwrecked lawn chairs. Alcohol played a significant role in my early life, and my behaviors resembled those of the generation before me. As the saying goes, the child is the father of the man. But this isn’t just my life story; it’s the life story of almost everyone I know. And for us, the unsupervised children of suburban violence and chaos, Carver is our Poet Laureate and Patron Saint. He understood that, more often than not, life doesn’t revolve around a single decisive moment. Instead, it’s a series of minor tragedies that we endure and internalize, eventually using them to shape ourselves into a vaguely human form. It’s that non-fatal decision to have one more nightcap, to blow off a piece of a fingertip with a bunch of fireworks, to believe that there’s something sacred about drinking in parks with your friends as a form of communion. In other words, Raymond Carver was the chronicler of the essence of my parents' generation and my own in 20th-century America: people making mistakes in an unremarkable way within the chain link fences of our own private Shangri-La’s. You won’t find another like us.