True love

(In advance, I would like to state that I have been reading far too many short stories. I feel guilty about this, since my father has told me ever since I was a little girl that short stories are a degenerate throwback to an pre-literate society and that the novel is the ultimate achivement of Western civilization. So guilt and pleasure.)

Dear Raymond Carver,

You are dead. That is ok, I feel we can work this out anyway. Because you write beautiful stories, cruel and brief and telling. You kept me up last night and woke me up early this morning. There are dirty tea mugs by my bed, but you don't care. You told me to keep reading, that you didn't care about the clutter. This morning when you finished, when I finished, I stumbled into the kitchen, mugs forgotten. Because you are wonderful. I've been around a bit- Chekhov, de Maupassant, McEwan, Beattie- but you stand out even compared to them. Hell, you love them too, so maybe you can forgive me my youthful reading around. I want to read your poetry now. I want to find your uncollected stories. Even the ones you hate. Especially the ones you hate, to see why you hate them. Because even in imperfection, you will still be beautiful next to me on the pillow early on Sunday mornings.

I love you.

Julia


(Those of you who have not read"Cathedral" and "What we talk about when we talk about love" should look for them. They are seriously worthwhile.)