Raymond Carver and the reality within

Talk of Hemmingway (who I liked but never loved) got me thinking about two alcoholic writers that I do love -- William Faulkner and Raymond Carver. The first was known for his novels, the second for short stories. Both American, both drinkers, both dying of non-drinking causes at relatively young ages. But more importantly, both holding up a mirror to our lives in a way that showed like few others the true gut-wretching pathetic-ness of our existence.

Why am I drawn to such dark writers? Here's a sample from Carver's story "Vitamins":

"A week or so into the new year, Patti and I were having a drink. She'd just come home from work. It wasn't so late, but it was dark and rainy. I was going to work in a couple of hours. But first we were having us some Scotch and talking. Patti was tired. She was down in the dumps and into her third drink. Nobody was buying vitamins. All she had was Donna and Pam, a semi-new girl who was a klepto. We were talking about things like negative weather and the number of parking tickets you could get away with. Then we got talking about how we'd be better off if we moved to Arizona, someplace like that.

I fixed us another one. I looked out the window. Arizona wasn't a bad idea."

Carver's stories are all like that. Mood and drink -- and that damn mirror held up to our everyday existence. Both Carver and his characters had the drink in them. For all the woozy drunkeness, maybe there's a clarity there that few are willing to admit to.