This is one of her photographs. The Hitchhikers could start with this picture and end with the standing boy (make him black) getting the guitar after man on the left kills the man with the guitar because he was tired of the way he just went on and on. Add a depressed third party observer, the salesman, who is given to semi-delusions and reverie ("On the road he did some things rather out of a dream. And the recurring sight of hitch-hikers waiting against the sky gave him the flash of a sensation he had known as a child: standing still, with nothing to touch him, feeling tall and having the world come all at once into its round shape underfoot and rush and turn through space and make his stand very precarious and lonely.") That story is unusual in that there is physical movement; mostly life happens in the minds of her characters. She is a master of the language of dreamy consciousness.

Other stuff is just fun: "Do you think it wise to disport with ketchup in Stella-Rondo's flesh-colored kimono?" I says.

So far my favorite of the stories is A Memory.

My father and mother, who believed that I saw nothing in the world which was not strictly coaxed into place like a vine on our garden trellis to be presented to my eyes, would have been badly concerned if they had guessed how frequently the weak and inferior and strangely turned examples of what was to come showed themselves to me.

I do not know even now what it was that I was waiting to see; but in those days I was convinced that I almost saw it at every turn. To watch everything about me I regarded grimly and possessively as a need. All through this summer I had lain on the sand beside the small lake, with my hands squared over my eyes, finger tips touching, looking out by this device to see everything:

which appeared as a kind of projection. It did not matter to me what I looked at; from any observation I would conclude that a secret of life had been nearly revealed to me—for I was obsessed with notions about concealment, and from the smallest gesture of a stranger I would wrest what was to me a communication or a presentiment.