Michael Foley

Raymond Carver is a typically American hero, a kind of literary Rocky – janitor, delivery man, sawmill operator, servicestation attendant, an uneducated alcoholic no-hoper who rises to Major Writer status and the Professorship of English at Syracuse University. Most writers would give a right arm for such authentic redneck credentials and one can be sure that most funky jobs listed on blurbs were only held for a couple of weeks during summer vacations. One can tell Carver is genuine because he makes nothing of it. It is the professorship that goes on the dust-jackets and not the many jobs, which are mentioned dismissively, in passing, in one of the essays in Fires.

The scouring of foreskins accomplished, all smegma flushed out of its lair Gear tightly stowed, hair washed, face shaved and briskly slapped With Noir for Men – a girl need fear nothing but fear itself.

Not that these girls are scared. They give a jaunty fingers back to men. Choosing drinks they say Make mine a stiff one and laugh. Lovely, thrilling, provocative stuff. These chicks...

It’s falling in love people love, the nervous excitement Move and counter-move in the ancient game of enticement

But I don’t yearn for early days with their permanent state Of tumescence, prepared to get up on a cracked plate

Smoothtalking my way into your house and fumbling on chairs Jumping away in fright at a bronchial cough upstairs

Returning through dark deserted streets,...