Winesburg, Ohio by Sherwood Anderson (best thriller books to read .txt) 📕
Description
Winesburg, Ohio, is set in a fictional town in early 1900s America based on Anderson’s boyhood memories of his hometown of Clyde, Ohio. The novel is actually a series of interconnected short stories, with each one focusing on the life of a different resident of the sleepy, pre-industrial town. Though each story peers into the personal life of a different character, the common threads running through all of them are George Willard, the young reporter for the Winesburg Eagle—and a pervasive sense of loneliness, even despair. As the stories obliquely trace George’s coming of age, he becomes a symbol of the hope the town holds for the future as its citizens struggle against the oppressive smallness of their existence and their paradoxical inability to form meaningful bonds with each other in such a small community.
The stories in Winesburg, Ohio are of a decidedly melancholy nature, but their real beauty lies in the vivid characterization of the big personalities living in the small town. The simplicity of Anderson’s plain-styled prose paints a rich picture, with each character precisely portrayed in all of their dusty down-to-earth physicality. One can almost picture the narrator as the whiskey-soaked voice of Tom Waits, rolling each syllable around in his mouth as the summer heat lies heavy in the twilight air.
Atmosphere aside, the stories are also unique in that Anderson creates narrative tension not with plot development, but with insights into the psychology of the kinds of people who choose, or don’t choose, to live in Winesburg. This makes the novel one of the earliest examples of literary modernism. It was praised by its contemporaries on publication, with H. L. Mencken stating that the novel “embodies some of the most remarkable writing done in America in our time.” It remained both acclaimed and widely read throughout the 1930s, when its popularity waned with the author’s own. In the 1960s critics reevaluated it, firmly placing it in the canon of modern American classics.
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- Author: Sherwood Anderson
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Enoch Robinson and George Willard met beneath a wooden awning that extended out over the sidewalk before Voight’s wagon shop on Maumee Street just off the main street of Winesburg. They went together from there through the rain-washed streets to the older man’s room on the third floor of the Heffner Block. The young reporter went willingly enough. Enoch Robinson asked him to go after the two had talked for ten minutes. The boy was a little afraid but had never been more curious in his life. A hundred times he had heard the old man spoken of as a little off his head and he thought himself rather brave and manly to go at all. From the very beginning, in the street in the rain, the old man talked in a queer way, trying to tell the story of the room in Washington Square and of his life in the room. “You’ll understand if you try hard enough,” he said conclusively. “I have looked at you when you went past me on the street and I think you can understand. It isn’t hard. All you have to do is to believe what I say, just listen and believe, that’s all there is to it.”
It was past eleven o’clock that evening when old Enoch, talking to George Willard in the room in the Heffner Block, came to the vital thing, the story of the woman and of what drove him out of the city to live out his life alone and defeated in Winesburg. He sat on a cot by the window with his head in his hand and George Willard was in a chair by a table. A kerosene lamp sat on the table and the room, although almost bare of furniture, was scrupulously clean. As the man talked George Willard began to feel that he would like to get out of the chair and sit on the cot also. He wanted to put his arms about the little old man. In the half darkness the man talked and the boy listened, filled with sadness.
“She got to coming in there after there hadn’t been anyone in the room for years,” said Enoch Robinson. “She saw me in the hallway of the house and we got acquainted. I don’t know just what she did in her own room. I never went there. I think she was a musician and played a violin. Every now and then she came and knocked at the door and I opened it. In she came and sat down beside me, just sat and looked about and said nothing. Anyway, she said nothing that mattered.”
The old man arose from the cot and moved about the room. The overcoat he wore was wet from the rain and drops of water kept falling with a soft thump on the floor. When he again sat upon the cot George Willard got out of the chair and sat beside him.
“I had a feeling about her. She sat there in the room with me and she was too big for the room. I felt that she was driving everything else away. We just talked of little things, but I couldn’t sit still. I wanted to touch her with my fingers and to kiss her. Her hands were so strong and her face was so good and she looked at me all the time.”
The trembling voice of the old man became silent and his body shook as from a chill. “I was afraid,” he whispered. “I was terribly afraid. I didn’t want to let her come in when she knocked at the door but I couldn’t sit still. ‘No, no,’ I said to myself, but I got up and opened the door just the same. She was so grown up, you see. She was a woman. I thought she would be bigger than I was there in that room.”
Enoch Robinson stared at George Willard, his childlike blue eyes shining in the lamplight. Again he shivered. “I wanted her and all the time I didn’t want her,” he explained. “Then I began to tell her about my people, about everything that meant anything to me. I tried to keep quiet, to keep myself to myself, but I couldn’t. I felt just as I did about opening the door. Sometimes I ached to have her go away and never come back any more.”
The old man sprang to his feet and his voice shook with excitement. “One night something happened. I became mad to make her understand me and to know what a big thing I was in that room. I wanted her to see how important I was. I told her over and over. When she tried to go away, I ran and locked the door. I followed her about. I talked and talked and then all of a sudden things went to smash. A look came into her eyes and I knew she did understand. Maybe she had understood all the time. I was furious. I couldn’t stand it. I wanted her to understand but, don’t you see, I couldn’t let her understand. I felt that then she would know everything, that I would be submerged, drowned out, you see. That’s how it is. I don’t know why.”
The old man dropped into a chair by the lamp and the boy listened, filled with awe. “Go away, boy,” said the man. “Don’t stay here with me any more. I thought it might be a good thing to tell you but it isn’t. I don’t want to talk any more. Go away.”
George Willard shook his head and a note of command came into his voice. “Don’t stop now. Tell me the rest of it,” he commanded sharply. “What happened? Tell me the rest of the story.”
Enoch Robinson sprang to his feet and ran to the window that looked
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