My very first impression of Lydia Davis: efficient
Once you’ve read the first paragraph of a story called “The Sock,” you will have read as much Lydia Davis as I have. Here. It’s just 107 words. Go ahead and read it:
My husband is married to a different woman now, shorter than I am, about five feet tall, solidly built, and of course he looks taller than he used to and narrower, and his head looks smaller. Next to her I feel bony and awkward and she is too short for me to look her in the eye, though I try to stand or sit at the right angle to do that. I once had a clear idea of the sort of woman he should marry when he married again, but none of his girlfriends was quite what I had in mind and this one least of all.
That’s on page 129 of The Collected Stories of Lydia Davis. It’s not my habit to start on page 129. The book just sort of fell open to page 129 when I got it home from the library today. I’d been waiting for it since December. According to the Seattle Public Library’s web site, 54 people are waiting for me to finish the book and bring it back.
Now, about that opening paragraph, those 107 words.
Play along for a minute. Pretend you’re a cop. Pretend you’re at a crime scene and you find nothing but a scrap of paper bearing those 107 words. Now, take a moment to realize all the facts those 107 words give you — the relationships, the histories. Go further, though. Beyond facts. Think of everything you can reasonably surmise about the character responsible for those words. It’s a lot. I’m getting that nice brain tingle that comes from encountering a writer who’s in charge.
