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hortongr's review
3.0
picked this up on a whim at used book store & it made for a great cross-country flight read. didn’t put it down for almost the entire 5 hours. did i love it? not necessarily… some of the short stories i think just went way over my head, some were offputting, some seemed like nonsense, and some were literally just 4 words, BUT some were really rather nice. I dog-eared the ones i liked most and a fair amount of pages now have the bottom corner turned up, so i feel it deserves a 3, even if i did skip a handful of short stories at the end (I could not bring myself to read Letters to the Foundation at all). also, unlike many of the other reviews, i really did enjoy reading The Cows—that one really might’ve been my favorite :)
paulap's review against another edition
fast-paced
2.5
This was a collection of curious annecdotes. Some of them were more interesting or funny than the others. But overall I thought that Lydia Davis came across as rather priviledged and a bit pedantic.
sunrays118's review against another edition
2.0
I can't and won't write a good review for this. It was lazy. It was predictable and yet said nothing. It was trite and conceited. The author had the audacity to interlace Flaubert's writing as if to imply we should compare the two. It is an easy comparison. Flaubert's writing is smooth and engaging. Davis' writing is shit. It's lopsided and uneven, it is poorly paced and arrogant. There is not an original thought in this entire collection.
I am generously awarding this two stars because one of the very short exerpts I found decent.
I do not suggest this book to anyone. If you are trapped on an island, use this for kindling.
I am generously awarding this two stars because one of the very short exerpts I found decent.
I do not suggest this book to anyone. If you are trapped on an island, use this for kindling.
mcwat's review
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.
hiagovinicius's review against another edition
challenging
emotional
funny
inspiring
reflective
relaxing
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
5.0
ludovicaciasullo's review
2.0
Si tratta di una raccolta di racconti di varia lunghezza (alcuni davvero micro, di poche righe, due lunghi una ventina di pagine), che non sono uniti da nessun tema, almeno non che io abbia colto.
La scrittura di Davis è graffiante e ironica, e questa caratteristica è esaltata nella forma brevissima, in cui tutto il piacere della lettura sta nella maestria dell'autrice a rendere "densa" una manciata di frasi. Probabilmente non è il genere che più mi attira, perché alla lunga anche questa continua sferzata mi ha un po' stancata. Oltretutto, non credo di aver sempre colto il "senso" di ognuno dei microracconti, per cui ammetto di essere stata a tratti un po' frustrata.
Alcune pagine mi hanno colpito, divertita o commossa, ma nel complesso questa raccolta mi lascia un po' confusa perché non riesco a darle una visione unitaria né posso dire di averla "assaporata" con gusto da cima a fondo.
La scrittura di Davis è graffiante e ironica, e questa caratteristica è esaltata nella forma brevissima, in cui tutto il piacere della lettura sta nella maestria dell'autrice a rendere "densa" una manciata di frasi. Probabilmente non è il genere che più mi attira, perché alla lunga anche questa continua sferzata mi ha un po' stancata. Oltretutto, non credo di aver sempre colto il "senso" di ognuno dei microracconti, per cui ammetto di essere stata a tratti un po' frustrata.
Alcune pagine mi hanno colpito, divertita o commossa, ma nel complesso questa raccolta mi lascia un po' confusa perché non riesco a darle una visione unitaria né posso dire di averla "assaporata" con gusto da cima a fondo.
kirinmccrory's review
4.0
When Lydia Davis writes few words, I find myself impressed by the impact, the great, grey impact, such few words can make on the reader; when Lydia Davis writes many words, I find myself impressed by the connections, those expansive, grey connections, that so many words can make.
rara2018's review
3.0
As a sum of its parts, this is a mediocre collection at best. I respect what Lydia Davis was doing here with the super short stories, but they just weren’t interesting after a while. Reading this made me understand the comments people make when they’re like “I don’t want to hear stories about your dreams.” I will say, the stories that actually had something to say did make me tear up a little. There were a few stories about dogs that made me a little emotional, and another about losing a sister that, being one of the longest in the collection, actually gave the reader a little time to connect with the story being told. Davis also included some humorous stories about things like being vaguely annoyed and the vastness of Illinois. If this had been trimmed a bit to remove the more basic and uninteresting stories, this could’ve been a four or even five star read, but as it stands, there was just too much bogging down the collection—I couldn’t care less about those damn Flaubert stories.