By Lydia Davis
The tip of the tale is an lively, candid, and humorous novel approximately an everlasting obsession and a woman's try and keep an eye on it by way of the telling of the tale of it. With ruthless honesty, crafty research, and crystalline depictions of human and average landscapes, Lydia Davis's novel deals a compelling illumination of the dilemmas of loss and the method of remembering.
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Extra info for The End of the Story: A Novel
Afterwards, we wait for applause squeezed inside a wardrobe the size of a pantry, as the theatre director strains to catch any reaction whatsoever, though it is clear there is none forthcoming. My play is almost universally panned. Only in reviews written by my Finn and the Jew does it receive equal praise. I knew immediately after recording them what the three dreams indicated, but not how or why. Why three such dreams, why such oneiric persistence without any apparent trigger in my waking life?
Brakhage the magician of light patterns on the retina—and their afterimages. The flashes that sometimes make for intervals between scenes signal some mystery, which is their lining, or which coats them. Their abruptness secures their obscurity and calls for a hermeticism of vision bound up with memory, as it is in sentient organisms. The “wold” of The Wold Shadow is a tenebrous tapestry of trees flooded by light (natural? ) of variable temperature, coherence, intensity. Or a nighttime forest discharging itself in bursts of radiant energy.
I saw no need 64 to prepare for the eventuality of being faced with gross moral choices (of the kind made by the Nazi killers after the solution, the system, the apparatus, the numbers were disclosed to them). ). But, as you know, the byways of consciousness verge on madness. We assume ourselves incapable of atrocity; it was (we reason) the doing of a monstrous madman (genius) who despite deluded supremacy and the pride he must have felt in masterminding and conducting a symphony of death, of orchestrating and overseeing the disaster, was ready to cast himself at any point into the pandemonium he thought he commanded, as the most impure of all, most scorned of all, most elevated in his scorn—who had fundamentally no regard for life, for real, workaday existence, and who led his hungry wolf-pack into a silva obscura.
The End of the Story: A Novel by Lydia Davis