Periodically I need to go to the woods to clear my mind. Or drive upstate and get my head in the mountain air. On my way out to the car I wanted to grab a book to keep me the kind of company only a good and familiar book can. I'm not sure when I first read Carver but he's one of those voices I want to return to again and again. His writing is a clear unpolluted stream. You get the sense he's walked over hot coals to get to a place of unvarnished truth and that he had to shed a lot of layers of ego and style and pretense to tell his side. This book begins by talking about his father and his writing and a specific kind of regret you become acquainted with if you live to a certain age. It's now the last thing I look at before closing my eyes each night.