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Winesburg, Ohio By Sherwood Anderson
began nowhere and ended nowhere. Sometimes the boy thought they must all be inventions, a pack of lies. And then again he was convinced that they contained the very essence of truth. “I was a reporter like you here,” Doctor Parcival began. “It was in a town in Iowa—or was it in Illinois? I don’t remember and anyway it makes no difference. Perhaps I am trying to conceal my identity and don’t want to be very definite. Have you ever thought it strange that I have money for my needs although I do
part of the popular Modern Library series, Winesburg, Ohio experienced increased sales, and it was soon widely viewed as a classic American novel. Even as Anderson’s overall literary reputation waned after 1925, Winesburg, Ohio remained solidly in the American literary canon. The book’s canonization, at least in part, was due to the fact that other influential writers and critics continued to praise Winesburg, Ohio long after Anderson’s death. In a 1953 reminiscence published in the Atlantic,
presence of the children in school. A great eagerness to open the door of life to the boy, who had been her pupil and whom she thought might possess a talent for the understanding of life, had possession of her. So strong was her passion that it became something physical. Again her hands took hold of his shoulders and she turned him about. In the dim light her eyes blazed. She arose and laughed, not sharply as was customary with her, but in a queer, hesitating way. “I must be going,” she said.
me,” he muttered sleepily. Then he slept and in all Winesburg he was the last soul on that winter night to go to sleep. LONELINESS HE WAS THE SON OF MRS. AL ROBINSON WHO ONCE OWNED A FARM on a side road leading off Trunion Pike, east of Winesburg and two miles beyond the town limits. The farmhouse was painted brown and the blinds to all of the windows facing the road were kept closed. In the road before the house a flock of chickens, accompanied by two guinea hens, lay in the deep dust.
Something in the still night drew them together and when the drunken boy’s head began to clear they talked. “It was good to be drunk,” Tom Foster said. “It taught me something. I won’t have to do it again. I will think more clearly after this. You see how it is.” George Willard did not see, but his anger concerning Helen White passed and he felt drawn towards the pale, shaken boy as he had never before been drawn towards any one. With motherly solicitude, he insisted that Tom get to his feet