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 remembered the blows Harry had struck and that the black had struck
and the blows I had seen Billy McCarthy strike. The black had a feint
and a cross that confused Harry and that landed the black’s left every
time full on Harry’s chin. Each time it landed Harry became a little
more groggy but he could not avoid the blow. And I remembered how the
black smiled each time as it landed. He had two rows of gold-covered
teeth and his smile was like Jack Johnson’s golden smile.
I went along factory streets fancying myself the great black,
possessing the knowledge of the black’s feint and cross and with the
athlete of the warehouse standing before me.
Aha! There is a slight rocking movement of the body, just so. The head
moves slowly and rhythmically like the head of a snake when it is about
to strike. Oh, for a long row of yellow gold-crowned teeth to glisten
in the mouth when one smiles the golden smile in factory streets, in
factories themselves or, most of all, when in a fight, when about to
knock an athlete who works with one on a certain platform, “for a
goal,” as we used to say among us fighters--an athlete on a platform
and with three or four large heavy Swede teamsters standing looking on
and smiling also their own slow smiles.
Patience now! One gets the body and the head moving just so, in
opposite directions, with opposing rhythm--a sort of counterpoint, as
it were--and then the golden smile comes and, quickly, shiftily, the
feint with the right for the belly followed with lightning quickness by
the left, crossed to the chin.
Oh, for a powerful left! “I would give freely and willingly all the
chances I possess of being buried with great pomp in a marble sepulchre
on a hillside above a magnificent city for a powerful left,” I think
each evening as I go home from work.
And all the time pretending to Nora and myself that I am one who loves
mankind! Love indeed! Nora who wished to make happy the one man she
understood and with whom she was to live was the lover, not I.
For me the athlete, poor innocent one, has become a symbol.
NOTE V
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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