I’d forgotten how much I love Lydia Davis’s work until I came across this poem posted on Facebook. I know, I know only old people are on Facebook now and hardly anybody I really know uses it, but it has lately been a source of algorithm-producing content that has exactly fit my mood—somewhat melancholy and existential since my agent dropped me, leaving me questioning how much my work matters and where can I go from here? Not sure of anything anymore. Then across the Facebook transom comes The Dog Hair The dog is gone. We miss him. When the doorbell rings, no one barks. When we come home late, there is no one waiting for us. We still find his white hairs here and there around the house and on our clothes. We pick them up. We should throw them away. But they are all we have left of him. We don’t throw them away. We have a wild hope--if only we collect enough of them, we will be able to put the dog back together again. Davis, Lydia. Can't and Won't: Stories. New Yor...
