Norm Macdonald, the comedian and former “Saturday Night Live” cast member, who lives in Los Angeles, recently visited New York. One morning, he was drinking coffee at a table in Bryant Park, wearing a red polo shirt from the Shadow Creek golf course, in Las Vegas. He had just made an appearance on “Fox & Friends,” where he talked about his new and largely fictional memoir, “Based on a True Story,” and about the breakup of Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. He then walked through Times Square, reflecting on his anxiety that, having now read half of the first volume of “In Search of Lost Time,” he might have chosen the wrong translation. A section of Forty-second Street was closed, because of a bomb scare, and the atmosphere in Champs Sports, at the edge of the cordoned area, was not restful. Macdonald left without buying anything; he wondered if Champs was the smallest sports store in the world.

In the park, Macdonald considered two plans: one was to rent an apartment in New York for a few months next spring; the other was to go to college. “I always wanted to be educated, and always envied educated people,” he said. He prefers long-dead authors, but said that his son, who is twenty-three, and who has published poetry and short stories, had recently persuaded him to try Raymond Carver. “And Carver really reminded me of Chekhov, whose work I love,” he said. Macdonald had tickets for a matinée preview of “The Cherry Orchard” that afternoon; this was only the third or fourth time he’d been to the theatre.

The operator of the Bryant Park carrousel began to remove overnight covers that protect the horses. Macdonald, who is fifty-six, and whose performances have a sort of sunny nihilism, talked about Chekhov’s stories. “I like the endings where nothing happens. And I like bleakness, because I grew up in a bleak area,” he said. (In Quebec, then Ontario.) “There is one story about a guy who’s on a boat, who’s dying, on this long, long trip. And everyone’s taunting him, about dying, you know: ‘You’re going to be dead soon.’ ” Macdonald laughed. “So, anyways, the guy dies, and then Chekhov continues the story. They put him in a kind of duffelbag, a sack, and throw him overboard. He sinks in the ocean, his dead body. And one fish grazes against him, rips the sack, and his body tumbles out, and a bunch of minnows come and eat little bits of him. And a big fish comes and takes away his legs, and that’s the end.” (Some of these details are not in the original.) “You sort of go, ‘What? It’s still going on? The guy’s dead. He’s still asked to endure these indignities!’ It’s a really cruel ending, and I like that.”

Macdonald jerked his head to one side. “That bird almost hit me in the face, like Fabio on the roller coaster,” he said.

Macdonald, who includes imaginary fistfights in his memoir, and in his comedy, said that there was “a kind of joy” in the real thing. “If you punch a guy, and it doesn’t hurt your fist or anything, and he just falls—I don’t know, but it’s fun,” he said. “One time I was in a fight—I was nineteen or twenty—and the guy was short, but he was strong, and he kept hitting me and hitting me. So I got in closer and embraced him, and I pushed down, and his head hit the cement. I picked him up, and then the head hit the cement again. And then the terrible terrible part was: I picked him up again, and he was limp, and I hit him against the cement. Which, at that point, I guess, was . . . murder, attempted murder, or something. So I just went home, and I was so scared. I was thinking, God, I hope he didn’t die, I hope he’s O.K.” Macdonald was laughing. “And he was O.K. We were both having sex with a girl who was married to another guy. So we were both bad.”

He walked back to his hotel; in the lobby, he read a text message on his phone. “Fucking Louis C.K.,” he said, half-seriously. “He always wants to meet and then he’s, ‘Nope, can’t do it.’ ” C.K., a friend, was asking if they could change a plan, and meet that afternoon, at a time when Macdonald would be seeing “The Cherry Orchard.” “How do I lie my way out of this?” Macdonald asked, putting the phone back in his pocket. A moment later: “The truth! I never considered the truth.” ♦