Came across this story last night and wept. Wept. I get so sentimental about it. I remember the first time I heard it read, I thought that nobody had ever or would ever understand love, at least the way I saw it, like Lydia Davis. I got very emotional about it, and I still do. Her work could very possibly be more of a relieving comfort to me than anything in my life, maybe besides the first few drops of coffee in the morning and whisky after a particularly trying afternoon, which are in themselves, remarkably capable. It's like reading your own thoughts without having to do any of the work, and it's so. beautifully. cathartic. Which is an important thing for a writer to be able to do. Her story "Kafka Cooks Dinner" is pretty much a play by play of what goes down every time I reach out to someone. Books are important, bro. They have many reasons for being, and serve many different purposes, just as each of us seeks different things from them. More about this later.
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