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
Here was something I liked and something the others liked too. When I
had come to people in strange houses, half drunk, released, they were
not afraid of me. “Well, he wants to talk,” they seemed to be saying
to themselves. “That’s fine!” There was something broken down between
us, a wall broken down. We talked of outlandish things for Anglo-Saxon
trained people to speak of, of love between men and women, of what
children’s coming meant. Food was brought forth. Often in a single
evening of this sort I got more from people than I could get from
weeks of ordinary intercourse. The people were a little excited by the
strangeness of two unknown men in their houses. With my companion I
went boldly to the door and knocked. Laughter. “Hello, the house!” It
might be the house of a laborer or that of a well-to-do merchant. I had
hold of my new-found friend’s arm and explained our presence as well as
I could. “We are a little drunk and we are travelers. We just want to
sit and visit with you a while.”
There was a kind of terror in people’s eyes, and a kind of gladness
too. An old workman showed us a relic he had brought home with him from
the Civil War while his wife ran into a bedroom and changed her dress.
Then a child awoke in a near-by room and began to cry and was permitted
to come in in her nightgown and lie in my arms or in the arms of the
new-found friend who had got drunk with me. The talk swept over strange
intimate subjects. What were men up to? What were women up to? There
was a kind of deep taking of breath, as though we had all been holding
something back from one another and had suddenly decided to let go.
Once or twice we stayed all night in the house to which we had gone.
And then back to the writing of letters--to sell my goods. In the city
to which I had gone to carouse I had seen many women of the streets,
standing at corners, looking furtively about. My thoughts got fixed
upon prostitution. Was I a prostitute? Was I prostituting my life?
What thoughts in the mind! There was a note due and payable at the
bank. “Now here, you man, attend to your affairs. You have induced
others to put money into your enterprises. If you are to build a great
enterprise here you must be up and at it.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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