I'm sure I've written before about my long-standing distaste for short stories. It probably stemmed from early adolescence, when I was forced to read 'The Gift of the Magi' one time too many. All of the awful short stories that English teachers make kids read give the impression that all short stories must have some kind of macabre, twist ending. As an adult, I skipped over the short story in every issue of The New Yorker, and it wasn't until I read George Saunders that I really started to enjoy them.

I'm not too proud to confess that I bought The Collected Short Stories of Lydia Davis purely for its aesthetic appeal: it's tiny and thick and the most beautiful blushy-orange color. It looks extremely satisfying on my nightstand, and I'm really enjoying the slow process of consuming it. Some stories are as short as a paragraph or a even a sentence, so it's hard to recommend to short story skeptics like myself, because Davis' stories are an exercise in the dismantling of the genre. Even so, for those who never found short stories appealing, the fact that her collection is so very different may be precisely what converts you.