The New Yorkerのインスタグラム(newyorkermag) - 10月2日 04時00分

Since the mid-1970s, Lydia Davis’s fiction has often taken as its subject matter the mistakes that creep into writing, or the misunderstandings that arise from speech and silence. Her painstaking attention to how the smallest units of language can be used or misused scales up to momentous questions about errors or missteps in human relations. On and off the page, Davis is reserved, droll, precise, and principled. She does not fly, eat meat, kill insects, or buy anything on Amazon; her newest collection of short stories, “Our Strangers,” will be available for purchase only at independent bookstores or through bookshop.org.
“Even as a young writer, I never said, ‘I want to reach a large audience. I want to be famous,’” Davis says. “It was more like ‘I want to do something as good as Beckett.’ I would have high ambition, but it was not for fame and glory. I don’t think you can chase after that. My ambition was to do something really good, like my heroes.” Tap the link in our bio to read the full interview, on writing misunderstandings, singing with strangers, and living with principle. Photograph by @barth_lila for The New Yorker.

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