National Avenue by Booth Tarkington (book recommendations website .txt) š
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National Avenue, originally titled The Midlander, is Booth Tarkingtonās final entry in his Growth Trilogy. Like the previous entries in the series, National Avenue addresses the rapid industrialization of small-town America at the turn of the century, and the socioeconomic changes that such change brings with it.
Dan Oliphant and his brother Harlan are the children of a wealthy small-town businessman. Harlan is a traditional upper-class manāaffecting an accent, dressing for dinner, and contemplating beauty and cultureāwhile Dan is boisterous and lively, eager to do big things. Dan sees the rise of industry in Americaās east as a harbinger for his own Midwestern town, and sets his mind on building an industrial suburb, Ornaby Addition, next to his cityās downtown.
Danās idea is met with scorn and mockery from not only his family, but also his fellow townspeople. Dan persists nonetheless, and soon the town must contend with his dream becoming a reality: noisy cars, smoky factories, huge, unappealing buildings, and the destruction of nature and the environment become the new normal as Danās industrial dream is realized.
Where The Turmoil focuses on industrializationās effect on art and culture, and The Magnificent Ambersons focuses on industryās destruction of family and of small-town life, National Avenue focuses on the men and women who actually bring that change about. Dan is portrayed sympathetically, but Tarkington makes it clear that his dreams and choices lead to a deeply unhappy family life and the ruination of the land around him. But can Dan really be faulted for his dream, or is industry inevitable, and inevitably destructive?
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- Author: Booth Tarkington
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Yes, I still care for him, but when I think of his awful Ornaby thing I sometimes believe I have married a madman. It is nothing as I saidā āhopelessā āa devastated farmā āand yet when he speaks of it his eye lights up and he begins to walk about and gesture and talk as if he actually saw houses and streetsā āand shopsā āand thousands of people living there! If this isnāt hallucination, I donāt know what hallucination means.
But since our excursion to the place Iāve almost cured him of talking about it to me! I just canāt stand it! And what is pleasant, I think he probably goes to talk about it to another woman. Already! A perfectly enormous girl seven or eight feet tall that heād picked out to be my most intimate friend! Because sheās been his most intimate friend, of course. But I suppose all men are like that.
The heat did relax for a day or twoā ābut itās back again. Sometimes I canāt believe I am actually in this placeā āapparently for lifeā āand I begin to hope that Iāll wake up. I think even you would pity me sometimes, George.
XIIIn the minds of Mrs. Savageās neighbours across the street and of the habitual passersby, that broad plate-glass window where it was her custom to sit for the last hour of every afternoon had come to bear the significance of a glass over a portrait. All long thoroughfares and many of even the shortest have such windows; and the people who repeatedly pass that way will often find the portrait window becoming a part, however slight, of their own lives; but it will seldom be an enduring part, except as a fugitive, pathetic memory. For a time the silent old face is seen framed there every day, or it may be a pale and wistful child looking out gravely upon the noisy world. Then abruptly one day the window is only a window and no more a portrait; the passerby has a moment of wonder whenever he goes by, but presently may have his faintly troubled question answered by a wreath on the door; and afterwards the window that was once a portrait will seem to him a little haunted.
Mrs. Savageās window had been a portrait so long that even the school children who went homeward that way in the autumn afternoons noticed a vacancy behind the glass and missed her from the frame; but new seasons came and passed, and no wreath appeared upon her door. She had been so thoroughly alive for so many years that the separation of herself from life could not be abrupt, even if she wished it. She did not wish it she told Harlan, one rainy night, as he sat beside her bed after bringing her the news that she was a great-grandmother.
āI suppose it seems funny to you,ā she said. āYou must wonder why an old woman with nothing to live for would still want to live. I suppose you think itās because I just want to eat a little more and to lie here listening to that!ā With a hand now become the very ghost of a hand, she gestured toward a window where the parted curtains revealed black panes slushed with noisy water by the strong west wind. āHow you must wonder!ā
āOh, no,ā Harlan said, though she spoke the truth. āI donāt wonder at all, grandma.ā
āYes, you do! How could a young person help wondering about such a thing? Year before last I could still go out for a little walk; last year I could only go for a drive in the afternoons. After that I could still get downstairs and sit by the window; then I couldnāt even do that, and could only hobble around upstairs;ā āthen I couldnāt even get into another room without being helped. And now for a month Iāve not been able to get out of bedā āand Iāll never be able to. No wonder you wonder I want to hang on!ā
āBut I donāt,ā he insisted. āI donāt, indeed.ā
āYou do. What do you think I have to live for?ā
āWhy, partly for your family, grandma. Weāre all devoted to you; and besides you have your memoriesā āI know you have many happy memories.ā
She laughed feebly, but nevertheless with audible asperity, interrupting his rather stumbling reassurances. āāāHappy memories!ā Young people are always talking about āhappy memoriesā; and they think old people ālive in their happy memories.ā I advise you not to look forward to spending your old age in that way! Thereās no such thing, young man.ā
āNo such thing as a happy memory?ā
āNot when youāre as old as I am,ā she said. āYou can only have a happy memory of something when you can look forward to something of the same kind happening again; but I canāt look forward to anything. Yet I still want to hang on!ā
Harlan laughed gently. āThen doesnāt that prove you do look forward to something, grandma?ā
āNo,ā she said. āIt only proves I still have a little curiosity. Iād like to live twenty years just to prove Iām right about how this babyās going to turn out.ā
The implication of her tone was grim with convictionā āclearly she spoke of a baby who could not turn out wellā āand Harlan was amused by his own perception of a little drama: his grandmother, clinging with difficulty to one extreme edge of life and prophesying only black doom for this new person who had just crawled up into life over the opposite extreme edge. āIām sorry you feel so gloomy about that baby, grandma. Iām rather pleased, myself, to
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