Of Time and the River & Look Homeward, Angel. Thomas Wolfe

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      Eugene was not quite sixteen years old when he was sent away to the university. He was, at the time, over six feet and three inches tall, and weighed perhaps 130 pounds. He had been sick very little in his life, but his rapid growth had eaten sharply at his strength: he was full of a wild energy of mind and body that devoured him and left him exhausted. He tired very quickly.

      He was a child when he went away: he was a child who had looked much on pain and evil, and remained a fantasist of the Ideal. Walled up in his great city of visions, his tongue had learned to mock, his lip to sneer, but the harsh rasp of the world had worn no grooving in the secret life. Again and again he had been bogged in the gray slough of factuality. His cruel eyes had missed the meaning of no gesture, his packed and bitter heart had sweltered in him like a hot ingot, but all his hard wisdom melted at the glow of his imagination. He was not a child when he reflected, but when he dreamt, he was; and it was the child and dreamer that governed his belief. He belonged, perhaps, to an older and simpler race of men: he belonged with the Mythmakers. For him, the sun was a lordly lamp to light him on his grand adventuring. He believed in brave heroic lives. He believed in the fine flowers of tenderness and gentleness he had little known. He believed in beauty and in order, and that he would wreak out their mighty forms upon the distressful chaos of his life. He believed in love, and in the goodness and glory of women. He believed in valiance, and he hoped that, like Socrates, he would do nothing mean or common in the hour of danger. He exulted in his youth, and he believed that he could never die.

      Four years later, when he was graduated, he had passed his adolescence, the kiss of love and death burned on his lips, and he was still a child.

      When it was at last plain that Gant’s will was on this inflexible, Margaret Leonard had said, quietly:

      “Well, then, go your ways, boy. Go your ways. God bless you.”

      She looked a moment at his long thin figure and turned to John Dorsey Leonard with wet eyes:

      “Do you remember that shaver in knee-pants who came to us four years ago? Can you believe it?”

      John Dorsey Leonard laughed quietly, with weary gentle relaxation.

      “What do you know about it?” he said.

      When Margaret turned to him again her voice, low and gentle, was charged with the greatest passion he had ever heard in it.

      “You are taking a part of our heart with you, boy. Do you know that?”

      She took his trembling hand gently between her own lean fingers. He lowered his head and closed his eyelids tightly.

      “Eugene,” she continued, “we could not love you more if you were our own child. We wanted to keep you with us for another year, but since that cannot be, we are sending you out with our hopes pinned to you. Oh, boy, you are fine. There is no atom in you that is not fine. A glory and a chrism of bright genius rest upon you. God bless you: the world is yours.”

      The proud words of love and glory sank like music to his heart, evoking their bright pictures of triumph, and piercing him with the bitter shame of his concealed desires. Love bade him enter, but his soul drew back, guilty of lust and sin.

      He tore his hand from her grasp, clinching, with the strangled cry of an animal, his convulsive throat.

      “I can’t!” he choked. “You mustn’t think —” He could not go on; his life groped blindly to confessional.

      Later, after he left her, her light kiss upon his cheek, the first she had ever given him, burned like a ring of fire.

      That summer he was closer to Ben than ever before. They occupied the same room at Woodson Street. Luke had returned to the Westinghouse plant at Pittsburgh after Helen’s marriage.

      Gant still occupied his sitting-room, but the rest of the house he had rented to a sprightly gray-haired widow of forty. She looked after them beautifully, but she served Ben with an especial tenderness. At night, on the cool veranda, Eugene would find them below the ripening clusters, hear the quiet note of his brother’s voice, his laugh, see the slow red arc of his cigarette in darkness.

      The quiet one was more quiet and morose than he had ever been before: he stalked through the house scowling ferociously. All his conversation with Eliza was short and bitterly scornful; with Gant he spoke hardly at all. They had never talked together. Their eyes never met — a great shame, the shame of father and son, that mystery that goes down beyond motherhood, beyond life, that mysterious shame that seals the lips of all men, and lives in their hearts, had silenced them.

      But to Eugene, Ben talked more freely than ever before. As they sat upon their beds at night, reading and smoking before they slept, all of the pain and bitterness of Benjamin Gant’s life burst out in violent denunciation. He began to speak with slow sullen difficulty, halting over his words as he did when he read, but speaking more rapidly as his quiet voice became more passionate.

      “I suppose they’ve told you how poor they are?” he began, tossing his cigarette away.

      “Well,” said Eugene, “I’ve got to go easy. I mustn’t waste my money.”

      “Ah-h!” said Ben, making an ugly face. He laughed silently, with a thin and bitter contortion of his lips.

      “Papa said that a lot of boys pay their own way through college by waiting on tables and so on. Perhaps I can do something like that.”

      Ben turned over on his side until he faced his brother, propping himself on his thin hairy forearm.

      “Now listen, ‘Gene,” he said sternly, “don’t be a damned little fool, do you hear? You take every damn cent you can get out of them,” he added savagely.