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Remembering Ray: A Composite Biography of Raymond Carver
Forty contributors offer stories of the literary figure, depicting his struggle with poverty and alcoholism and his redemption by love and fame
- GenresBiography
263 pages, Paperback
First published September 1, 1993
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Displaying 1 - 8 of 8 reviews
October 27, 2019
Ray Carver's literary reputation steadily increased after his too early death in 1988. With that there was increased interest in his life which seemed to inspire his short stories and poems about blue collar lives facing challenges of addiction, betrayal, not enough money, self disappointment. Knowing about his life led me to not reject his stories as too depressing, too negative but to look for the nuance, to find the dignity in the lives Carver expertly portrays.
Remembering Ray is not a true biography, instead it is a collection of remembrances from those who knew him. What makes this collection work is the diversity of those who remember him. Published in 1993 the remembrances are based on personal experiences not the increasingly glowing stature of his works. It includes those who remember Carver when he was broke, sometimes abusive, and repeatedly sabotaging his own life addled by addiction, those who knew him in his second life, the last years when he was sober and reaping the beginnings of professional and financial success and those who knew him in both of his lives.
The diversity extends to relationships, from fellow writers to publishers to the typist in Port Angeles to the one whose only connection was that they were in the same high school class. There are stories of despair, wild, drunken stories, stories of redemption, stories in between. The remembrances are united by the theme of Carver's commitment to his craft, writing stories about people that he knew best, that he wrote about the best
Remembering Ray is not a true biography, instead it is a collection of remembrances from those who knew him. What makes this collection work is the diversity of those who remember him. Published in 1993 the remembrances are based on personal experiences not the increasingly glowing stature of his works. It includes those who remember Carver when he was broke, sometimes abusive, and repeatedly sabotaging his own life addled by addiction, those who knew him in his second life, the last years when he was sober and reaping the beginnings of professional and financial success and those who knew him in both of his lives.
The diversity extends to relationships, from fellow writers to publishers to the typist in Port Angeles to the one whose only connection was that they were in the same high school class. There are stories of despair, wild, drunken stories, stories of redemption, stories in between. The remembrances are united by the theme of Carver's commitment to his craft, writing stories about people that he knew best, that he wrote about the best
December 18, 2017
A reread. I didn't remember having read this until I started and checked my records indicating I read it in August 2007. So I enjoyed it again. Two highlights for me this time: David Carpenter's account of Carver and Richard Ford hunting geese in Saskatchewan, and Stephen Hunt's account of his traveling to Carver's funeral, "Stories Change You." Plus there's moving tribute in poetry by the likes of Jane Kenyon, Charles Wright, and Hayden Carruth. A chronicle of remembrance by writers so fine that I bet, borrowing a phrase from Carver, "even the ground--/squirrels/are dazzled."
December 2, 2017
This is one of the best books I've read in the last 6 months. Maybe 40 excellent writers (including Richard Ford, Tobias Wolf, Murakami...)appreciating the great Raymond Carver in prose and verse. I strongly recommend this book, even if you're not a big fan of short stories.
March 25, 2022
Enjoyable read. For Ray Carver fans this is another good look into his meaningful life as well as a fondly-remembered engagement with some of his good friends.
March 6, 2017
A collection of poems and essays from people who knew Raymond Carver; since most of them were writers, there's a wealth of styles, from simple "journaling" to "short stories." Also, most of them agree that Carver was a decent, kind man who, in the ten years between when he sobered up and his untimely death, never took his talent or good fortune for granted, and went out of his way to help other writers.
March 17, 2009
Loved this. Love how you get Ray seen through the eyes of his beloved Tess, other writers (Murakami amongst them!), truck drivers, students, duck hunters, and old classmates. Ray's life attests to the idea: we gather good (or, at the very least, interesting) people as we gather good stories. Life-the living of it and its recording-comes streaming through these pages. Favorite anecdote that had me guffawing in the middle of the night:
So Raymond Carver and Tobias Wolff are exchanging bad-boy stories, and Wolff doesn't want to be outdone, so he finds himself saying:
"Ray, I used to be a heroin addict."
"No! No, Toby."
I couldn't stop myself. Ray's surprise and horror were even greater than my own, and I found them bracing, inspirational. Now, what I know about heroin addiction can be engraved on the head of a pin. So I improvised. I let my invention run riot over Ray's credulity until I was satisfied that I had indeed topped him, and then I thought, My God, what am I doing? and clammed up, leaving Ray itching for more. But I kept quiet and made him promise once again not to tell anyone.
I brooded for weeks, until the next time I saw Ray. As soon as we were alone I told him there was something he should know.
"What's that, Toby?" He looked eager--possibly in expectation of further insider trading about "horse" and "nodding out" and "cold turkey."
When I told him that I had never been a heroin addict he just stared at me. I said that I was sorry, that I didn't know what had come over me to say such a thing.
He looked stricken. "Jesus," he said.
I started to apologize again, but he waved it away. He was silent for a time, mulling things over. Then he said he had a little confession of his own to make.
"What's that?"
He had told a few people. Actually, he said, he had told quite a few people. But he had pledged them all to secrecy, he added.
"No, Ray. You didn't."
He nodded. He was mortified with embarrassment, so much so that he couldn't take his eyes off the floor with his feet. I looked at the floor myself. "How many people?" I asked.
He shrugged.
We sat there for a while.
Then we started to laugh. I don’t know which of us laughed first, but in a moment we were helpless with it, Ray bent double in his chair, pounding the floor with his feet, me howling and staggering and careening off the walls. I laughed until my cheeks were wet and every breath drew pain.
From that day on we never spoke of it, but now and then other people, some of them strangers, have given me cryptic words of sympathy and encouragement.
–Tobias Wolff, "Appetite"
So Raymond Carver and Tobias Wolff are exchanging bad-boy stories, and Wolff doesn't want to be outdone, so he finds himself saying:
"Ray, I used to be a heroin addict."
"No! No, Toby."
I couldn't stop myself. Ray's surprise and horror were even greater than my own, and I found them bracing, inspirational. Now, what I know about heroin addiction can be engraved on the head of a pin. So I improvised. I let my invention run riot over Ray's credulity until I was satisfied that I had indeed topped him, and then I thought, My God, what am I doing? and clammed up, leaving Ray itching for more. But I kept quiet and made him promise once again not to tell anyone.
I brooded for weeks, until the next time I saw Ray. As soon as we were alone I told him there was something he should know.
"What's that, Toby?" He looked eager--possibly in expectation of further insider trading about "horse" and "nodding out" and "cold turkey."
When I told him that I had never been a heroin addict he just stared at me. I said that I was sorry, that I didn't know what had come over me to say such a thing.
He looked stricken. "Jesus," he said.
I started to apologize again, but he waved it away. He was silent for a time, mulling things over. Then he said he had a little confession of his own to make.
"What's that?"
He had told a few people. Actually, he said, he had told quite a few people. But he had pledged them all to secrecy, he added.
"No, Ray. You didn't."
He nodded. He was mortified with embarrassment, so much so that he couldn't take his eyes off the floor with his feet. I looked at the floor myself. "How many people?" I asked.
He shrugged.
We sat there for a while.
Then we started to laugh. I don’t know which of us laughed first, but in a moment we were helpless with it, Ray bent double in his chair, pounding the floor with his feet, me howling and staggering and careening off the walls. I laughed until my cheeks were wet and every breath drew pain.
From that day on we never spoke of it, but now and then other people, some of them strangers, have given me cryptic words of sympathy and encouragement.
–Tobias Wolff, "Appetite"
January 1, 2010
reading this will make any writer feel sane and balanced.
March 29, 2013
A " must-read" for any Raymond Carver fan!
Displaying 1 - 8 of 8 reviews