Lydia Davis

An itinerant photographer has set up his camera, lights, and chair in a local grocery store. This was many years ago. I was there, I saw it myself.

He used to play the violin, but then, as his fingers thickened and lost some of their agility, he became frustrated by trying to play, and then bored by it. 

On Forms and Influences

In a Hotel Room in Ithaca

April, the housekeeper,

has left a message for me

handwritten in red ink on a piece of paper.

It is lying next to the coffeemaker.