This story from Lydia Davis is sad enough to make you want to cry. It paints a bleak picture of how our lives are dominated by the little things that go wrong, and how these can lead to depression and tears. Some respite may come at the end of the day, but only if things are going well at home. Most of the story is told in the past tense, about a time when I was young. Does this imply that as we get older we become so accustomed to these daily frustrations that they don’t bother us as much?
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