A story teller's story : $b The tale of an American writer's journey through his own imaginative world and through the world of facts, with many of his experiences and impressions among other writersAnderson, Sherwood
General
A story teller's story : $b The tale of an American writer's journey through his own imaginative world and through the world of facts, with many of his experiences and impressions among other writers
Anderson, Sherwood
Anderson, Sherwood, 1876-1941; Authors, American -- 20th century -- Biography
“I had put the thought aside, and had taken up this other, you see.
Between myself and the young athlete I had created in fancy a relation
that would never attempt to come to any sort of physical expression. We
would live, I dreamed, each his own life, each gathering what beauty
might be possible from the great outer world and bringing it as a prize
to the other. There would be this man I loved and of whom I asked
nothing and toward whom my whole impulse would be forever just to give
and give to the very top of my bent.
“You understand how it was, or rather of course you do not understand
now but some day it may be you will,” said the voice coming from the
thin lips of the small fat man walking up and down the room behind me
in the house in Ohio. “I did a foolish thing,” said the voice. “One day
I wrote a note to the man telling something of the dream that had been
in my mind and as I had nothing else to send I went to a florist’s and
sent him a great bunch of beautiful roses.”
“I got no answer to the note but later he showed it about and all
during the rest of my days at the school--and out of a kind of
blind determination I stayed on there until I graduated and had got
my degree, my expenses after my father’s death being paid by my
cousin--during all the rest of my days at the school I was looked upon
generally as a--perhaps you do not even know the meaning of the word--I
was looked upon as a pervert.
“There was another and more vulgar word, a word I had seen on the walls
of the shed and on the board fence when I was a schoolboy that was
also shouted at me. Like my father before me I, in my trouble, took to
walking in the streets and in lonely places at night. The word would
be shouted at me from the darkness or from the steps of a house as I
stumbled along in the darkness and I had not then, as I had when I was
a lad, the satisfaction of thinking of myself as another Francisco, as
one who could resort to poison powders to assert his own supremacy and
to reëstablish himself with himself.
“I was simply determined I would finish my days in college and would
not follow my father’s footsteps in taking my own life--having then and
always having had a queer sort of respect, do you see, for life as it
manifested itself in my own body--that I would finish my days in that
place and that I would then, at the first opportunity, get hold of
enough money to make myself respected among the men with whom and in
whose company I would in all likelihood have to live out my days.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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