The Brooklyn Rail

Odds are you will recognize yourself and others in your orbit in many of the perfectly-distilled pieces in Lydia Davis’s outstanding new collection of petite fiction, Our Strangers. These nuanced and succinct stories cunningly explore both the vagaries and the ephemerality of life in Davis’s inimitable style; and what are our individual and collective moments, days, and very lives if not short fictions?

The plurality of the title emphasizes such individualisms and collectives and how they collide and fracture into delightful morsels which at times repeat and accumulate thematically, with a sonic quality that indicates more than a touch of poetic craft. The title also intimates that we’re not entirely strangers to each other, or possibly that strangeness is part and parcel of being human. Even with the ubiquity of social media, perhaps especially because of it, we roam this world like land icebergs, with only a small percentage of what we truly are, visible. What Davis does so well is plumb both the observable and unseen aspects of human nature, in all its subversive, perverse, and ofttimes hilarious aspects.

Already a trailblazer when it comes to making short prose an art form, Davis is also part of a vanguard shifting the publishing industry in another impactful way: Our Strangers will only be available through Bookshop, independent booksellers, and through libraries, but not on that well-known online marketplace. Yet, as momentous as this is, the true pleasure of this collection is having more of Davis’s stories in our strange world, in these strange times.

Mandana Chaffa (Rail): In “Heron in the Headlights,” one of the speakers says “writers don’t have to be honest.” There’s a strong first-person in your work that shares some of the attributes of your own life and interests: how much does that speaker overlap with the (real) Lydia Davis?

Lydia Davis: There is a good deal of overlap, as you would suspect. But in various ways there is also a protective distortion that produces a narrator who is not really me, or not exactly. For one thing, I select from my experiences, not ever reproducing a whole event exactly as it happened. For another, I fictionalize freely wherever I like, when recounting an incident or letting the narrator think out loud. And then, there is the narrative voice, which is not exactly my everyday, personal voice. This narrative voice is created by the style of the writing, I suppose. There is something artful, or exaggerated, perhaps exaggeratedly precise, about the way she speaks and thinks that is, again, not exactly characteristic of me as I am in my own real life.

Rail: The title story begins: “People are strangers to me… These people are not like me and they are not really like each other, although they seem to me more like each other than like me just because they have in common the fact that they are all strangers to me.”

One of the universal themes you explore—with both playfulness and profundity—is intimacy. Do you think people truly want what intimacy entails—and demands—or are they generally satisfied by superficial interactions? Does the highly interactive, short-attention span world in which we live make it harder than ever to truly connect to others? Or are we all just strangers forming temporary alliances, protecting our shared property lines?

Davis: I think it depends very much on which generation one belongs to. A twenty-something will experience the world and human connectedness quite differently from a seventy-something. I resist the over-connectedness of social media and global interconnection, whereas I relish the many momentary encounters I have face-to-face with three-dimensional people. These can be, and often are, casual encounters with strangers: for instance just today, with a woman on the street who was remarking to her dog how the weather was changing. I chose to answer her, even though it was unclear whether she was actually talking to the dog or talking in my direction, and we had a pleasant, and humorous, exchange that lasted all of twenty seconds. I read somewhere that these casual encounters with strangers—as we have when shopping in person, for instance—are good for us, not just mentally but even physically. (Assuming they are pleasant interactions, of course…!) But balancing these, we have warmer and more permanent interactions with friends who are valuable to us, and then intimacy with just a few, either friends, lovers, or family. I think all these connections are important. I distrust encounters through social media with strangers, because even if a temporary bond forms, it is fragile and perhaps in the end quite meaningless. But, in sum, yes, we still crave human connection and commitment, and need it—that's what I believe!

Rail: There are repetitions sprinkled throughout this collection that feel like poetic refrains: such as “Claim to Fame” or “Marriage Moment of Annoyance” or “Sabbath Story”. Did you write them at the same time, and intersperse them later? How does your writing and editing practice work whether it’s fiction, essay, or translation?

Davis: Both of the “series” in the book accumulated over time, as had been true of earlier series in earlier collections. Once the idea of these possible “Claims to Fame” occurred to me, then they began to gather magnetically—along came another and another. The same with the “Marriage Moments of Annoyance.” I deliberately left the “Claims to Fame” out of order, at first so I wouldn't get confused about which was which when I was organizing the book, and then because I wanted to allow the number to remain identified with the “Claim,” even if number one might come late in the book. When it came to organizing the book, I wanted to place them in smaller groups through the book, as, yes, a sort of refrain. It is usually quite difficult organizing a book of stories, especially when there are so many, as there are in this book—by one count, 143 small and longer stories. The organizing is partly reasoned out and partly done by “feel.” I like to start with a few stories I am sure of which give a sense of the book to come, and end with stories appropriate for ending—in this case including one about death. I will place a somewhat longer and more challenging story after the midpoint of a collection. And, as I said, let a series recur through the book. At a certain point, though, I throw up my hands—I can’t do it perfectly. And I’m aware that people might dip into a book like this anyway, rather than read the stories in order, front to back.

Rail: Speaking of poetry, I’ve always loved your translations of such, (Reverdy, for example), and some of your work is close-read as poetry (I’m thinking specifically of “A Mown Lawn”, or “Head, Heart”). Your writing is generally siloed into fiction, translation, and essay, though I think it transcends such demarcations. You’re deeply poetic, regardless of what kind of genre you might be working in, because of your precision, your pacing, and the delight you take in language. Having said that, are there other genres that you’d like to explore?

Davis: Well, it seems possible that I'll be exploring two other genres in the near future. Upcoming projects will not be fiction, as far as I can predict, except for perhaps one animal story. One project, maybe two, if I can get to both of them, will be written in a form of biography in which the main subjects speak in their own voices and I add commentary. Another project will be to continue, and finish, adapting an ancestor's memoir into a long narrative poem. I have already published parts of it. That one has given me a lot of pleasure, since the original writing (my ancestor's) is so good already.

Rail: Your “overhearings”—I hesitate to call them eavesdropping because most people don’t think too much about who is around them these days—are deeply satisfying. I’ll admit that as a city-dweller, given our close quarters on public transportation, in doctors’ offices, on the unending twisting lines at markets and pharmacies, I rather love the conversations I overhear, whether it’s two people or someone’s cell phone monologue. The pandemic ended some of that proximity, but clearly, not your output. How has our shifting environment altered your inspirations, as well as your own relationship with the world?

Davis: I do like to transform “found” material—when it comes my way. Most of the material comes through the same sort of proximity to strangers that we’ve always had—at neighboring tables in restaurants or cafes, in waiting rooms of doctors or gate areas at airports, at neighboring seats on trains. But then there is the internet, and I have picked up nice things from shared lists and spam messages. But also, actually—back to more traditional sources—at community meetings. By habit, I am always writing down language that interests me, and my interest is in the language itself and the human interaction that it reveals.

Rail: I’ve been enjoying your work for a long time now, and what makes it endlessly re-readable is that it always feels relatable: I see the constant absurdities of life, and if I’m to be honest, as a “wistful spinster” myself, the absurdity that is me. You always seem to have an understanding, more, a sympathy, for even the most difficult of your subjects.

Davis: Thank you. I'm not sure how to respond except to agree that the sympathy is there, the empathy. And that I do a lot of observing. I tend to watch people (and things) for longer than you would imagine—in some sense, I feel as though I am absorbing them into myself. I do a lot of analyzing, too, and maybe this comes from having to teach writing for a number of years. I ask the students—and myself—what small gesture on the part of that woman revealed her impatience? What details of that person’s clothing reveal that he is not well-off? I guess that is all about paying attention, which may come from empathy or lead to empathy, or both.

Rail: Another terrific call and response is the piece “Interesting Personal Vegetables”, followed a few pages later by “Commentary on ‘Interesting Personal Vegetables’” where you effectively perform self-marginalia. It’s tremendously fun to read, and I’d like to believe that it was fun to write. Writing is work, to be sure, but are you having as much enjoyment writing, as we are reading?

Davis: I do take pleasure in the act of devising a piece of writing. I wrote “Interesting Personal Vegetables,” and then, in effect, there was a sequel to the story, in which I learned more about those vegetables, so I wrote the sequel, too. I’m not sure I've ever before included a story and commentary on the story within the same book, although in fact the first story you mentioned earlier, “Heron in the Headlights,” does at least have a comment on writing and specifically about that particular story. It is circular, in that the story itself includes a description of how she might approach writing the story. Something like this also happens in another story, “That Obnoxious Man.”

Rail: I especially enjoy the pieces that are a kind of ars scripturam, focusing on the art of writing itself, such as “That Obnoxious Man” which refers to one who is as known for brevity as you are, Lorine Niedecker. Coincidentally, at one point in my reading, the great Bernadette Mayer—whom I was lucky enough to talk to several times—came to mind. It was late at night, when unexpected juxtapositions sometimes show themselves most clearly and as different as your modalities are, you both excel at expertly controlled mayhem, as well as a talent for redefining what a particular genre is or should be. When I Googled both of your names (another late-night action that leads to rabbit holes), I realized that you two knew each other, and I read your beautiful remembrance of her for the Poetry Project. Did your cordial neighborly relationship also involve questions of craft, or literary work?

Davis: Yes, Bernadette and I lived in the same small village until her death last year. She lived in what is called the “lower village,” because it is downstream from the “upper village,” which is where I live. We were friends, we would see each other a few times a year, she and her partner Phil had a yearly July 4th party which I would go to, and, just before COVID kept everyone separated, she and I gave a reading together in our nearby small city, Hudson. But we did not tend to talk about our approaches to writing, only sometimes mentioning recent books or friends who were writers—no heart-to-hearts about craft. That wasn't her way, or mine, even though it would have been so interesting.

Rail: Might you talk about your decision to have this collection only available to independent bookstores, libraries and Bookshop? It’s a terrific support for independents and against the behemoths, but when did you start thinking about doing this?

Davis: I had not bought anything through Amazon for many years, but it had not occurred to me to withhold my own books from the grasp of that greedy giant until Dave Eggers led the way with his The Every, which was, for a number of weeks, and in special hardcover editions, available only through independent bookstores. This was just before my second book of essays came out, so it was too late to do anything with that publication. But I then resolved that my next book of stories would not be available through Amazon. I've been perfectly happy about this decision ever since I made it. The happiness is in the satisfaction of supporting what you believe in—and I believe in the high value of the care and dedication of the independents, which support and enrich our communities rather than destroying them.

Rail: I think in two languages, and smatter in a few more. Each time I’ve started to learn a new one, something reshapes in my mind, in how I perceive, and how I process information. I read that you didn’t tackle the translation of Proust until many years after you first read his work, and of course, you’re as brilliant a translator as you are a writer; how do these different paths to expression entwine in your work? Are you working on a translation now? Are there new languages you’re plumbing?

Davis: I have no idea, really, of the effect of the different foreign languages I know on my stories, which are written in my deeply native English. I did not learn a non-English language until I was seven years old, so my own language is deeply planted in me. It is true that after I learned German, as a child, sometimes the German words for things flew into my head first—such as schmetterling for "butterfly" (as my mother used to report). And this still happens. But I have no idea, as I said, how this affects my native English, except perhaps for making me all the more aware of it. I am not working on any translations at present. After my last two book-length translations, I confined myself to translating very short stories only, by a Dutch writer and a Swiss writer. That was very enjoyable, entering a whole new territory. Right now, I'm trying to become better at reading Latin. I've studied it off and on since grade school, but never read it easily. I just today brought home a book (bought at an independent bookstore, of course) called Long Live Latin: The Pleasures of a Useless Language, by Nicola Gardini. It seems to lead one gently through the styles of different classical authors. Let's see if that helps…

Rail: So what is it about turnips?

Davis: Turnips… yes. A very unglamorous vegetable. But evidently an important crop in earlier times, at least in my area. And I am resolved to learn different good ways to prepare them so that they’re enjoyable. The source of one of the stories that features them (I think there are only two, but I could be wrong) is a column in my local (very local and very small) weekly newspaper, which excerpts diary entries from a farmer of the mid-nineteenth century who lived near here. He grew turnips and was able to trade them for any number and variety of goods and services. His turnips were a form of currency for him.

Rail: There are a number of much longer pieces in the collection, like “Winter Letter” or “Pardon the Intrusion,” which carve away at the concept of a community, like a piece of figurative art. The specificity of the entries across twenty or so pages offers a distinctive neighborhood, and a perspective of it which remains tantalizingly open. It also underscores the way you build momentum and control pacing regardless of the length of a story, and reminds me that music was your first love. You incorporate a variety of “keys,” major and minor, sharp and flat, to create mood and open your work to multiple interpretations. Do you think in terms of music when you’re writing?

Davis: You're right that music was my first love—playing and reading scores, studying music theory. And I do think that music training was helpful in a number of ways. Certainly I learned about structure per se, and my ear was trained to listen closely, which carries over into being sensitive to the rhythms of prose. When I'm writing, I don't “think” in terms of music, but I'm sure my constant immersion from a pretty early age in (mostly classical) music has influenced the rhythms and structures of my prose. Very little in my approach to writing is conscious or deliberate, though—it all comes more spontaneously or naturally from inside me, from whatever has developed in me. And that's what I recommend for younger writers—develop yourself, and then write freely and inventively. Train yourself rigorously in technique, cultivate your mind—and then write adventurously and unselfconsciously.