Concord, June 6th.–. . . Mr. F—- arrived yesterday, and appeared to be in most excellent health, and as happy as the sunshine. About the first thing he did was to wash the dishes; and he is really indefatigable in the kitchen, so that I am quite a gentleman of leisure. Previous to his arrival, I had kindled no fire for four entire days, and had lived all that time on the corned beef, except one day, when Ellery and I went down the river on a fishing excursion. Yesterday, we boiled some lamb, which we shall have cold for dinner to-day. This morning, Mr. F—- fried a sumptuous dish of eels for breakfast. Mrs. P. —- continues to be the instrument of Providence, and yesterday sent us a very nice plum-pudding.
I have told Mr. F—- that I shall be engaged in the forenoons, and he is to manage his own occupations and amusements during that time, . . .
Leo, I regret to say, has fallen under suspicion of a very great crime,–nothing less than murder,–a fowl crime it may well be called, for it is the slaughter of one of Mr. Hayward’s hens. He has been seen to chase the hens, several times, and the other day one of them was found dead. Possibly he may be innocent, and, as there is nothing but circumstantial evidence, it must be left with his own conscience.
Meantime, Mr. Hayward, or somebody else, seems to have given him such a whipping that he is absolutely stiff, and walks about like a rheumatic old gentleman. I am afraid, too, that he is an incorrigible thief. Ellery says he has seen him coming up the avenue with a calf’s whole head in his mouth. How he came by it is best known to Leo himself. If he were a dog of fair character, it would be no more than charity to conclude that he had either bought it, or had it given to him; but with the other charges against him, it inclines me to great distrust of his moral principles. Be that as it may, he managed his stock of provisions very thriftily, burying it in the earth, and eating a portion of it whenever he felt an appetite. If he insists upon living by highway robbery, it would be well to make him share his booty with us. . . .
INTERVIEWER
More and more you seem to use found materials in your stories.
DAVIS
Back in the early eighties, I realized that you could write a story that was really just a narration of something that had happened to you, and change it slightly, without having really to fictionalize it. In a way, that’s found material. I think it’s hard to draw the line and say that something isn’t found material. Because if a friend of mine tells me a story or a dream, I guess that’s found material. If I get an e-mail that lends itself to a good story, that’s found material. But then if I notice the cornmeal making little condensations, is that found material? It’s my own, I’m not using text, but I am using a situation that exists. I’m not making it up. I find what happens in reality very interesting and I don’t find a great need to make up things, but I do like retelling stories that are told to me.
INTERVIEWER
The last time I was here you mentioned that you jot things down on scraps of paper. What happens to those scraps?
DAVIS
They pile up in my study. And then I use them. Sometimes when I’m just sort of tidying up, I go through them and type them onto the computer and then either do something with them right away or else I just leave them there for later. When I travel, I carry around a notebook with me. I use notebooks a lot because my brain tends to live in the moment. I’m always afraid of forgetting something.
From the Spring 2015 issue of Paris Review. Lydia Davis’s full interview is now online. She discusses her fiction and translation, recalls taking Grace Paley’s writing class when she was 19, and trying to run away from school after reading Walden.
William T. Vollmann photographed by Ken Miller during the, uh, adventures chronicled in Butterfly Stories. (Photo via).
“Gandalf Goes West”
by
Chris Power
HAL STANDS IN FRONT OF THE SCREEN. On the screen the words GANDALF GOES EAST.
GO EAST, types Hal.
The cursor flashes.
BILBO GOES EAST, the screen says.
The cursor flashes.
Another line of text appears: GANDALF GOES WEST, it says.
Hal clenches his hands once, twice. He cannot progress in the game without Gandalf. GO WEST, he types.
The cursor flashes.
BILBO GOES WEST, the screen says.
Ben comes into the room and walks over to Hal. He reads the words on the screen from top to bottom:
GANDALF GOES EAST
GO EAST
BILBO GOES EAST
GANDALF GOES WEST
GO WEST
BILBO GOES WEST
GANDALF GOES EAST
Hal turns to Ben. How are you? Hal says.
Ben stares at the screen.
Stay, says Ben.
Read the rest of Chris Power’s short story “Gandalf Goes West” at The White Review.
How many sub-rosa twins are there, out there, really? What if heredity, instead of linear, is branching? What if it’s not arousal that’s so finitely circumscribed? What if in fact there were ever only like two really distinct individual people walking around back there in history’s mist? That all difference descends from this difference? The whole and the partial. The damaged and the intact. The deformed and the paralyzingly beautiful. The insane and the attendant. The hidden and the blindingly open. The performer and the audience. No Zen-type One, always rather Two, one upside-down in a convex lens.
A passage from David Foster Wallace’s novel Infinite Jest. Thoughts are Joelle Van Dyne’s for those keeping score. The riff reminds me of all the binaries in Gravity’s Rainbow, but maybe only because I just read Gravity’s Rainbow.
From Joseph T. Shipley’s The Origin of English Words: A Discursive Dictionary of Indo-European Roots.
Biblioklept 