"Good Raymond" by Richard Ford sung to me tonight. Not only do Carver and Ford give me the best moments of clarity and insight in fiction since Salinger, but at one point Ford describes a moment of Tess Gallagher reading "Degrees of Gray in Phillipsburg" "and as the last phrase sounded--'and her red hair lights the wall'--feeling a moody silence come over us all, a slightly embarrassed wordlessness about the fact that we were so frankly letting the poem _in_, with all its blunt intimations of death and lust and boomtowns gone bust and beautiful girls you never get to visit again. It's a sentimental poem and wonderful one from a wonderful and rather sentimental poet who never got his due. And it cariries strong feeling the way a hod carrier totes bricks. But we all subscribed to it." still do, I suppose, will