the saddest thing that raymond carver ever wrote

TOO NERVOUS TO EAT PIE!!!!!!!!!

oh my god, i weep for that man.

started a thread on ilb about the whole lish/new yorker/etc thing. feel free to chime in if you are a k-mart and/or dirty realist:

The Whole New Yorker Raymond Carver Thing

Here I was all set to nominate the story with the baby, but now I'm more amused than anything.

Carver's voice isn't so different from Mickey Spillaine's.

"It isn't going to be easy getting through this engagement, kitten, but let's keep it cool until we do."
"I hope you're saying that because you're still weak."
I gave her another grin, flipped out Patterson's .45 and pressed it into her palm. "Sure I am, doll, sure I am," I said.
She looked at the slug, smiled and dropped it in her cleavage where it fell into her bra. I suppose.
By the time I got home I knew it was a lie. The day had washed me out and even pushing the button in the elevator was hard work. The pain in my belly was coming back, sharp jabs of it with each beat of my pulse. When I got inside I started the bathwater going, then got undressed so there would be no waiting period before I got covered by the soothing warmth of the suds.
I should of listened to Morgan. My body wasn't fifteen years old anymore. It was injured and hurting bad and all I could do was sweat it out until nature fused with medication and I could reach a normal peak again. Twice, I had to run more hot water into the tub and an hour later the relief started. I sat there for another ten minutes, then eased out and sat under the infrared light in the ceiling until I was dried off.
Even thinking about what could have happened at Le Cirque gave me the jumps. Either of those guys could have cleaned my plow if they had gotten past my reputation. Luckily, all they could see was that .45 slug. If I had a bullet, then I had a gun. If I had a gun, then I sure would have used it if those clowns had made a move. That was real positive thinking for them. For me it was stupid. I looked at my face in the mirror over the sink. It was pretty haggard looking. I said, "No more, Mikey boy. Quit being a wise guy."

"It isn't going to be easy getting through this engagement, kitten."

Or the Lish version:

"I hope you're saying that because you're still weak."

"Sure I am, doll, sure I am," I said.

She looked at the slug, smiled and dropped it in her cleavage. It fell into her bra. I suppose.

By the time I got home I knew it was a lie. The day had washed me out and even pushing the button in the elevator was hard work. The pain in my belly was coming back. I got inside and got the bathwater going. Then I undressed so there would be no waiting before I got covered by the suds.

I should of listened to Morgan. My body wasn't fifteen years old anymore. It was injured and hurting bad. Twice I had to run more hot water into the tub. An hour later the relief started. I sat there for another ten minutes. I eased out.

Even thinking about what could have happened gave me the jumps.

I said, "No more, Mikey boy."

I said, "Quit being a wise guy," I said.

actually, the lish version would be more like this:

"I hope you're saying that because you're still weak."

"Sure I am, doll, sure I am," I said.

i have been too nervous to eat pie.

theres a story in my copy of 'cathedral' about half way through the book where the narrator, having recently left or been left by his wife is sitting in an ugly studio apartment hes renting hungover and punching himself in the head and the monotonous and overwhelming miserbalism of it all starts to just deaden me and i cant take it anymore but its also incredibly, viscerally sad the sheer accumulation of these sort of moments is really affecting and powerful idk

"Things kept falling. I didn't care."