When Lydia Davis’s collected works were published in 2009, I didn’t really know who she was. I don’t think I was alone in that, though she’s been diligently writing and publishing — and earning acclaim from those paying attention — since the mid-1970s. Since 2009 things have changed. That strange, gigantic book of tiny stories showed those of us who were not looking just what she’s been up to — and it was fantastic! Winning the Man Booker International Prize last year didn’t hurt. I feel fortunate that, amidst all of her work translating from the French (I particularly recommend her translation Vivant Denon’s No Tomorrow, which I wrote about here and talked about here) and even revising the children’s book Bob, Son of Battle, which will be coming out from The New York Review Children’s Collection in the fall, she’s put out a new collection, Can’t and Won’t (2014).

Review copy courtesy of FSG.
If you haven’t read Lydia Davis’s stories before then an introduction is in order. These are “stories” only in the broadest sense of the word. Her “stories” range from the completely mundane (like “Letter to a Frozen Peas Manufacturer,” which upbraids the manufacturer for its poor packaging of its superior product: “Please reconsider your art!”) to the historical (several of these are tidbits from Flaubert’s own life and observations recorded in letters (these are some of my favorites as Flaubert expresses his own thoughts on what is meaningful while creating “meaning”)) to the subliminal (many of the pieces are labeled “dreams,” and we’re left to glean meaning, or at the very least happenstance, on our own, as we’re dropped in a dream and then taken out of it just as immediately).
Rarely do we get a conventional narrative arc. Often we get only a sentence (there are, by my count, 122 stories in 283 pages here), pulled from its context, forcing us to focus on how something is being said and what is left unsaid.
Some showcase their poignancy in such a way we can capture it at first glance:
A Woman, Thirty
A woman, thirty, does not want to leave her childhood home.
Why should I leave home? These are my parents. They love me. Why should I go marry some man who will argue and shout at me?
Still, the woman likes to undress in front of the window. She wishes some man would at least look at her.
Others take a moment longer:
The Low Sun
I am a college girl. I tell a younger college girl, a dancer, that the sun is very low in the sky now. Its light must be filling the caves by the sea.
dream
I hesitate to quote to widely from the collection, though. First, who am I to provide context when we readers are so obviously expected to fend for ourselves in this wilderness of sentences? And, second, I find that I like my Lydia Davis in large gulps, meaning I sit down and read twenty or thirty of the “stories” in one go, barely stopping for breath. Then I revisit and ruminate. This works well for me because, while the stories seem like independent points plotted far from each other, taken as a whole you begin to find a pattern, if not a narrative pattern then other types of patterns: thematic, structural, and, even, fascinatingly, importantly, grammatical.
Just look at the story on the cover above — yes, that’s nearly the entire story — and you’ll see that Davis is often all about grammar as if that’s the most important thing. We might believe her by the end. There’s a deliberate curtness to “can’t” and “won’t” that, placed as the finale of this tiny story, underlies indignation: this story came about because she was denied a writing prize “because, they said, I was lazy.” In another, she plays with the poor grammar of others:
The Language of the Telephone Company
“The trouble you reported recently
is now working properly.”
These brief flashes of prose are a strange but ultimately illuminating way to approach human experience and examine it in language. Davis forces us to focus on the relationship between experience and language, and how the two influence each other. While this is not a new concept, Davis’s focus on it is new, unique, and — hopefully — inimitable.
Yes, can’t wait for this, so thanks for whetting the appetite. I think Davis is inimitable and I hope she has plenty more left to come.
Yes, I am reading the stories at this very moment, but not in such large gulps as you Trevor, and I believe they are just as good and even superior in some respects to the Collected stories. I think in future I would be better advised to buy the individual books rather than a huge collection (I had the same feeling of being overwhelmed, losing my bearings with William Trevor’s huge volume of collected stories, the framework of the individual books is removed, so to speak).
Anton
Lee, I think it was you who first put me on her work back in 2009 — thanks!
Anton, I know what you mean about buying the individual books rather than that giant collection, but for me it came together nicely as a big package. I’m not entirely sure I can say why.
No worries, I think she was massively under the radar before that but had a bit of a Marksonesque renaissance with the collected stories. (And didn’t Cheever only really become common currency (in terms of having a really wide readership) when his ‘Collected stories’ arrived right at the end of his career?)
I’ve been reading Can’t and Won’t for a couple of months now. I read a few of the “stories” at a time. I read other books in between. I have this book by my bed (actually on–it’s a double and I’m a single), along with an Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader, a book of quotations, handy dictionaries, The New Yorker, … plus books I’m currently reading or have been looking at lately (or not so lately), book-markers, extra reading glasses (different strengths, and I always need two to read), my smart phone, charging cord, writing notebook, pencils, erasers, mail, tissue (to clean phone and glasses), flashlight, … and that’s about all you need to know about the setting of my reading and writing.
Lydia Davis’s book is 283 pages, from page 1 (although page 3 is the first one numbered) through the last story (not counting the blank opposite side of the page 283 sheet of paper). The pages actually number to 289, including the Notes and Acknowledgements (not counting the blank opposite side of 289), which is an interesting 5 page section, btw. In addition, if you count the front matter numbering to xi (although they aren’t numbered until vii), that makes an even 300. Except that doesn’t include the thicker sheets just inside the binding, for a total of 304, but those are different, so let’s skip them.
All this, however, is very deceptive, because there are many blank pages, and much blank space on many pages. 15 of the 300 are completely blank. 5 more have nothing but the I II III IV V as titles of the parts. The 2 title pages and the dedication page have only a few words each. 1 of the contents pages has only 6 partial lines of print, and 46 of the story pages have 7 or fewer lines (including titles), as few as 2, and many of those partial. I tire of counting meticulously, so I’ll estimate about 50 other pages are half or more blank. That doesn’t count the many double blank lines separating sections of print on a page, often totaling more or less half the page. Every story title claims 10 lines surrounding it. Only about 70 of the book’s pages have 4 or fewer blank lines. *You do the math.
Please!
For the record, a full page allows 35 lines, with more or less 60 character spaces ( 58-62) per line. The type is clear, moderately bold, a comfortable size to read.
C & W is almost my first taste of Lydia Davis. I sampled a little of her earlier Collected Stories once. Someone please tell me, is that a *selection from her earlier books, or the *complete collections? Because this, her next single collection, seems to me could stand some culling if there’s a second Collected. Many of the smaller “stories” are anecdotes, quips, observations, little poems, letters, word pics, moments… I liked some better than others. Here’s one called “Contingency (vs. Necessity):
“He could be our dog.
But he’s not our dog.
So he barks at us.”
I can relate!
I most recently read part IV in a 2 day binge. It contains by far the most reading, including the two longest stories, totaling over 50 pages with hardly any blank space. “Seals” is a real story. I especially liked it. I’d like to tell you what I found good about it. I’ll leave it to some of the more astute commentators here to tell us what’s wrong with it, and why the author chose to name it for the “little white seals with perforated backs… filled with charcoal, which is supposed to absorb odors”, one of the many animal gifts given to the narrator by her older sister, whose death inspires feelings and ponderings about their relationship and how well they really knew each other or didn’t. Her confusion and distress were deeply conveyed to me. There’s so much more to this story than I will discuss here. Her mother went through 3 husbands and the sisters had different fathers. I’d be interested in a discussion of this story alone.
The other long one, “The Letter to the Foundation” was an epistolary farce about/by a teacher who desperately attempts escape work with a grant she was awarded by a foundation. Well done, I thought, Lydia Davis style.
About 30 of the stories are purportedly her dreams, and many aren’t especially interesting–to me, anyway, no more than some of mine would be to others, so I’m guessing they’re real. Okay, here’s one:, not long but I’ll abbreviate it: “The Sentence and the Young Man”. In public view in a trash can is an ungrammatical sentence, “Who sing!?!” A young man is eyeing it. Lydia writes, “We will stay where we are, for fear that, at any moment, he will reach in and fix it.”
Other stories are some of Davis’s translations of Gustave Flaubert’s letters. Again, some I found more interesting than others. One I thought especially revealing: “The Exhibition”. He attended an “exhibition of savages”… “Kaffirs…Negroes”.. “their expressions desperately sad, astonished, and brutalized”… “one of them, an old woman, noticed me and came into the audience where I was sitting–she had, it seems, taken a sudden liking to me. She said…some affectionate things, as far as I could tell … Then she tried to kiss me.” … “What is it that makes me attractive to cretins, madmen, idiots, and savages?…” Their manager later abandoned them to their own devices in France.
Hmm…
One story I really liked was “The Cows”.
Scientific observation, really–without conclusions. She watches, over time, the behaviors of her three black cows as they leave the barn and move about the field, grazing,, lying down, looking at each other, even playing. About 90 different moments (separated each by 2 blank lines). How they differ from each other. How they move in relation to each other–not habitual, more varied than one might think they’d be. One wonders what they are thinking.
Yes, thinking…
Only 16 pages here, but it was published separately as a chapbook of twice as many pages, with photos.
Spoiler alert!
I cheated.
I skipped to see how the book ends.
You may want to quickly scroll past
with your eyes closed.
Okay, here comes,
the entire conents of page 283. …
“Ph.D.
All these years I thought I had a Ph.D.
But I do not have a Ph.D.”
A sort of epilogue, I suppose.
Sometimes Lydia makes me think of
Andy Kaufman…
Lydia must have decided she could write these kinds of things and people would read them. If I had thought that way, I might have done something similar. Yeah, I do think I could have. That’s not to under rate her as a writer. I haven’t even read her essays. I’ve read she’s also a mathematician and a sculptor, among other things. Not me! But stuff I used to write long ago was quirky and often articulate in its way, too. I thought of my miscellaneous writing, as a hobby, a passtime, because I was just me, no way was I any… (filll in your choice of minor giant in lit). And I’m not! Leave that to Lydia. Besides, writing takes me far too long, and I’m compulsive. I’d never have been able finish anything, and never have had time to read or sleep. It would have ruined my life! That was ages ago. Now I’m mostly anxious to devour as much of my ever growing list of must-reads as possible before I die. That’s more than enough.