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A review by mcwat
Can't and Won't by Lydia Davis
Saw/heard Lydia Davis read at McNally Jackson earlier tonight. Picked up Can't and Won't and later read the first fifty pages while sitting in a Chipotle, which felt inappropriate. I'm excited to read the rest, but I'm hoping to stretch out the experience. Experience has taught me that Davis's prose is easily read quickly, so I really want to make sure I savor it this time around.
In person, Davis was, of course, hilarious in an understated way. After she read, I nearly left McNally Jackson without having her sign my book—partially because I had a lot to do, but also because the thought of coming so close to one of my favorite writers terrified me. But I stayed, and she signed my book, and we had a brief, hideous conversation.
I approached the table where she and Lynne Tillman—who had also read, and who was also hilarious—were sitting.
Davis took my book and began flipping to the title page. "You went to Barnard," I said woodenly, looking at her. I'm sure my face was bright red. She and Lynne Tillman looked back at me. "I go there."
There was a pause that felt long. Maybe it wasn't, though. I'd noticed during the reading that her button-down shirt and the face of her watch were the exact same shade of dusty rose, and during the maybe-long pause, I looked at the face of the watch, and at her face, and wondered whether we'd have been friends at Barnard. Probably not, I decided. Davis in her twenties would've been as terrifying to me as the Davis of now.
She gave a little chuckle. An employee of the store had written my name on a Post-It and stuck it to the cover of Can't and Won't. Now, Davis peeled the note off and looked at it. "Well, I'm sure you're more engaged than I ever was." She wrote on the title page: first, her name at the bottom of the page, beneath where it was printed, and then my name above the book's title.
Lynne Tillman appeared deep in thought. "I taught a few classes at Barnard," she said. "Those girls were some of the smartest I ever met."
Davis held out my book (in a much more important sense, her book), her expression unreadable, and I took it. "Thanks," I said to Lynne Tillman, having appointed myself Barnard's provisional ambassador, which probably surprised me more than it did either of them. I did not thank Lydia Davis—I forgot. I left the store and walked over one hundred blocks north to campus, considering what had just happened.
In person, Davis was, of course, hilarious in an understated way. After she read, I nearly left McNally Jackson without having her sign my book—partially because I had a lot to do, but also because the thought of coming so close to one of my favorite writers terrified me. But I stayed, and she signed my book, and we had a brief, hideous conversation.
I approached the table where she and Lynne Tillman—who had also read, and who was also hilarious—were sitting.
Davis took my book and began flipping to the title page. "You went to Barnard," I said woodenly, looking at her. I'm sure my face was bright red. She and Lynne Tillman looked back at me. "I go there."
There was a pause that felt long. Maybe it wasn't, though. I'd noticed during the reading that her button-down shirt and the face of her watch were the exact same shade of dusty rose, and during the maybe-long pause, I looked at the face of the watch, and at her face, and wondered whether we'd have been friends at Barnard. Probably not, I decided. Davis in her twenties would've been as terrifying to me as the Davis of now.
She gave a little chuckle. An employee of the store had written my name on a Post-It and stuck it to the cover of Can't and Won't. Now, Davis peeled the note off and looked at it. "Well, I'm sure you're more engaged than I ever was." She wrote on the title page: first, her name at the bottom of the page, beneath where it was printed, and then my name above the book's title.
Lynne Tillman appeared deep in thought. "I taught a few classes at Barnard," she said. "Those girls were some of the smartest I ever met."
Davis held out my book (in a much more important sense, her book), her expression unreadable, and I took it. "Thanks," I said to Lynne Tillman, having appointed myself Barnard's provisional ambassador, which probably surprised me more than it did either of them. I did not thank Lydia Davis—I forgot. I left the store and walked over one hundred blocks north to campus, considering what had just happened.