Howells, William Dean, 1837-1920 -- Childhood and youth
The printing-office had been my school from childhood so largely that I
could almost say I had no other, but the time had come, even before
this, when its opportunities did not satisfy the hunger which was always
in me for knowledge convertible into such beauty as I imagined and
wished to devote my life to. I was willing and glad to do my part in
helping my father, but he recognized my right to help myself forward in
the line of my own longing, and it was early arranged that I should have
a certain measure of work to do, and when it was done I should be free
for the day. My task was finished early in the afternoon, and then my
consuming pleasures began when I had already done a man's work. I was
studying four or five languages, blindly and blunderingly enough, but
with a confidence at which I can even now hardly smile; I was attempting
many things in verse and prose which I seldom carried to a definite
close, and I was reading, reading, reading, right and left, hither and
yon, wherever an author tempted me. I was not meaning to do less than
the greatest things, or to know less than the most, but my criticism
outran my performance and exacted of me an endeavor for the perfection
which I found forever beyond me. Far into the night I clung to my
labored failures in rhyme while I listened for the ticking of the
death-watch in the walls of my little study; or if I had imagined, in my
imitations of others' fiction, some character that the poet had devoted
to an early death, I helplessly identified myself with that character,
and expected his fate. It was the day when this world was much more
intimate with the other world than it is now, and the spiritualism which
had evoked its phenomena through most houses in the village had left
them haunted by dread sounds, if not sights; but it was not yet the day
when nervous prostration had got its name or was known in its nature.
For me this malady came in the hypochondria which was misery not less
real because at the end of the ends I knew it to be the exaggeration of
an apprehension without ground in reality.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Elsewhere in the archive
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account