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My Father, A Ruined Dandy From The South, Had Been Reduced To Keeping A Small Harness-repair Shop And, When That Failed, He Became Ostensibly A House-and-barn Painter. However, He Did Not Call Himself A House-painter. The Idea Was Not Flashy Enough For Him. He Called Himself A "sign-writer.

-Sherwood Anderson

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My Father, A Ruined

Sherwood Anderson

My Father, A Ruined Dandy From The South, Had Been Reduced To Keeping A Small Harness-repair Shop And, When That Failed, He Became Ostensibly A House-and-barn Painter. However, He Did Not Call Himself A House-painter. The Idea Was Not Flashy Enough For Him. He Called Himself A "sign-writer.

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Sometimes I Think We Americans Are The Loneliest People In The World. To Be Sure, We Hunger For The Power Of Affection, The Self-acceptance That Gives Life. It Is The Oldest And Strongest Hunger In The World. But Hungering Is Not Enough.

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You Won’t Arrive. It Is An Endless Search.

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You Must Try To Forget All You Have Learned,” Said The Old Man. “you Must Begin To Dream. From This Time On You Must Shut Your Ears To The Roaring Of The Voices.

From The Place By The Railing At The Edge Of The Tracks On The Summer Evening I Return Across The City To My Own Room. I Am Vividly Aware Of My Own Life That Escaped The Winter On The Boat. How Many Such Lives I Have Lived. Then I Only Made A Dollar And A Half A Day And Now I Sometimes Make More Than That In A Few Minutes. How Wonderful To Be Able To Write Words. ... Again I Begin The Endless Game Of Reconstructing My Own Life, Jerking It Out Of The Shell That Dies, Striving To Breathe Into It Beauty And Meaning. ... I Wonder Why My Life, Why All Lives, Are Not More Beautiful.

You Can Make A Killing As A Playwright In America, But You Can't Make A Living.

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Most People Are Afraid To Trust Their Imaginations And The Artist Is Not.

My Father, A Ruined Dandy From The South, Had Been Reduced To Keeping A Small Harness-repair Shop And, When That Failed, He Became Ostensibly A House-and-barn Painter. However, He Did Not Call Himself A House-painter. The Idea Was Not Flashy Enough For Him. He Called Himself A "sign-writer.

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If You Are To Become A Writer You'll Have To Stop Fooling With Words.

If I Can Write Everything Out Plainly, Perhaps I Will Myself Understand Better What Has Happened.

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It Was A Cold Day But The Sun Was Out And The Trees Were Like Great Bonfires Against Gray Distant Fields And Hills.

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He Thought About Himself And To The Young That Always Brings Sadness.

All Good New Orleanians Go To Look At The Mississippi At Least Once A Day. At Night It Is Like Creeping Into A Dark Bedroom To Look At A Sleeping Child--something Of That Sort--gives You The Same Warm Nice Feeling, I Mean.

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Her Thoughts Ran Away To Her Girlhood With Its Passionate Longing For Adventure And She Remembered The Arms Of Men That Had Held Her When Adventure Was A Possible Thing For Her. Particularly She Remembered One Who Had For A Time Been Her Lover And Who In The Moment Of His Passion Had Cried Out To Her More Than A Hundred Times, Saying The Same Words Madly Over And Over: "you Dear! You Dear! You Lovely Dear!" The Words, She Thought, Expressed Something She Would Have Liked To Have Achieved In Life.

The Eighteen Years He Has Lived Seem But A Moment, A Breathing Space In The Long March Of Humanity. Already He Hears Death Calling. With All His Heart He Wants To Come Close To Some Other Human, Touch Someone With His Hands, Be Touched By The Hand Of Another.

Breathing Space

Interest In The Lives Of Others, The High Evaluation Of These Lives, What Are They But The Overflow Of The Interest A Man Finds In Himself, The Value He Attributes To His Own Being?.

The Lives Of People Are Like Young Trees In A Forest. They Are Being Choked By Climbing Vines. The Vines Are Old Thoughts And Beliefs Planted By Dead Men.

Would It Not Be Better To Have It Understood That Realism, In So Far As The Word Means Reality To Life, Is Always Bad Art -- Although It May Possibly Be Very Good Journalism?

There Is A Time In The Life Of Every Boy When He For The First Time Takes The Backward View Of Life. Perhaps That Is The Moment When He Crosses The Line Into Manhood.

I Am A Little Thing, A Tiny Little Thing On The Vast Prairies. I Know Nothing. My Mouth Is Dirty. I Cannot Tell What I Want. My Feet Are Sunk In The Black Swampy Land, But I Am A Lover. I Love Life. In The End Love Shall Save Me.

Father Was Made For Romance. For Him There Was No Such Thing As A Fact.

What's Wrong With This Egotism? If A Man Doesn't Delight In Himself And The Force In Him And Feel That He And It Are Wonders, How Is All Life To Become Important To Him?

People Who Have Few Possessions Cling Tightly To Those They Have. That Is One Of The Facts That Make Life So Discouraging.

On The Trees Are Only A Few Gnarled Apples That The Pickers Have Rejected. They Look Like The Knuckles Of Doctor Reefy's Hands. One Nibbles At Them And They Are Delicious. Into A Little Round Place At The Side Of The Apple Has Been Gathered All Its Sweetness. One Runs From Tree To Tree Over The Frosted Ground Picking The Gnarled, Twisted Apples And Filling His Pockets With Them. Only The Few Know The Sweetness Of The Twisted Apples.

Work Accomplished Means Little. It Is In The Past. What We All Want Is The Glorious And Living Present.

You Must Try To Forget All You Have Learned,” Said The Old Man. “you Must Begin To Dream. From This Time On You Must Shut Your Ears To The Roaring Of The Voices.

Father Was Made For Romance. For Him There Was No Such Thing As A Fact.

I Think The Whole Glory Of Writing Lies In The Fact That It Forces Us Out Of Ourselves And Into The Lives Of Others.

In Youth There Are Always Two Forces Fighting In People. The Warm Unthinking Little Animal Struggles Against The Thing That Reflects And Remembers

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On The Trees Are Only A Few Gnarled Apples That The Pickers Have Rejected. They Look Like The Knuckles Of Doctor Reefy's Hands. One Nibbles At Them And They Are Delicious. Into A Little Round Place At The Side Of The Apple Has Been Gathered All Its Sweetness. One Runs From Tree To Tree Over The Frosted Ground Picking The Gnarled, Twisted Apples And Filling His Pockets With Them. Only The Few Know The Sweetness Of The Twisted Apples.

If People Did Not Want Their Stories Told, It Would Be Better For Them To Keep Away From Me.

You Must Not Become A Mere Peddler Of Words. The Thing To Learn Is To Know What People Are Thinking About, Not What They Say.

All Of The People Of My Time Were Bound With Chains. They Had Forgotten The Long Fields And The Standing Corn. They Had Forgotten The West Winds.

Most People Are Afraid To Trust Their Imaginations And The Artist Is Not.

People Who Have Few Possessions Cling Tightly To Those They Have. That Is One Of The Facts That Make Life So Discouraging.

...she Thought That Something Unexpressed In Herself Came Forth And Became A Part Of An Unexpressed Something In Them.

The Fruition Of The Year Had Come And The Night Should Have Been Fine With A Moon In The Sky And The Crisp Sharp Promise Of Frost In The Air, But It Wasn't That Way. It Rained And Little Puddles Of Water Shone Under The Street Lamps On Main Street. In The Woods In The Darkness Beyond The Fair Ground Water Dripped From The Black Trees.

Nothing Gives Quite The Satisfaction That Doing Things Brings.

I Am Constantly Amazed At How Little Painters Know About Painting, Writers About Writing, Merchants About Business, Manufacturers About Manufacturing. Most Men Just Drift.

There Is A Kind Of Shrewdness Many Men Have That Enables Them To Get Money. It Is The Shrewdness Of The Fox After The Chicken. A Low Order Of Mentality Often Goes With It.

In The Beginning When The World Was Young There Were A Great Many Thoughts But No Such Thing As Truth. Man Made The Truths Himself And Each Truth Was A Composite Of A Great Many Vague Thoughts. All About In The World Were Truths And They Were All Beautiful.

Nothing Gives Quite The Satisfaction That Doing Things Brings.

If People Did Not Want Their Stories Told, It Would Be Better For Them To Keep Away From Me.

There Is This Thing Called Life. We Live It, Not As We Intend Or Wish, But As We Are Driven On By Forces Outside And Inside Ourselves.

Whereas God, For Reasons Of His Own, Sometimes Chooses To Let The Machine Answer. 'the Supreme Being Is Unavailable To Come To The Phone At This Time, But He Wants You To Know What Your Call Is Important To Him. In The Meantime, For Sins Of Pride, Press One. For Avarice, Press Two.

The Disease We All Have And That We Have To Fight Against All Our Lives Is ... The Disease Of Self.

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I Go About Looking At Horses And Cattle. They Eat Grass, Make Love, Work When They Have To, Bear Their Young. I Am Sick With Envy Of Them.

I Think That Those Of Us Who Are What Are Called Intellectuals Make A Terrible Mistake In Overvaluing The Yen We Have For The Arts, Books, Etc. There Is A Sweet, Fine Quality In Life That Has Nothing To Do With This, And More And More I Find Myself Valuing Myself With Those People.

There Is A Kind Of Shrewdness Many Men Have That Enables Them To Get Money. It Is The Shrewdness Of The Fox After The Chicken. A Low Order Of Mentality Often Goes With It.

There Is Within Every Human Being A Deep Well Of Thinking Over Which A Heavy Iron Lid Is Kept Clamped.

I Am Pregnant With Song. My Body Aches But Do Not Betray Me. I Will Sing Songs And Hide Them Away. I Will Tear Them Into Bits And Throw Them In The Street. The Streets Of My City Are Full Of Dark Holes. I Will Hide My Songs In The Holes Of The Streets.

In That High Place In The Darkness The Two Oddly Sensitive Human Atoms Held Each Other Tightly And Waited. In The Mind Of Each Was The Same Thought. "i Have Come To This Lonely Place And Here Is This Other," Was The Substance Of The Thing Felt.

From The Place By The Railing At The Edge Of The Tracks On The Summer Evening I Return Across The City To My Own Room. I Am Vividly Aware Of My Own Life That Escaped The Winter On The Boat. How Many Such Lives I Have Lived. Then I Only Made A Dollar And A Half A Day And Now I Sometimes Make More Than That In A Few Minutes. How Wonderful To Be Able To Write Words. ... Again I Begin The Endless Game Of Reconstructing My Own Life, Jerking It Out Of The Shell That Dies, Striving To Breathe Into It Beauty And Meaning. ... I Wonder Why My Life, Why All Lives, Are Not More Beautiful.

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The Father Spent His Time Talking And Thinking Of Religion. He Proclaimed Himself An Agnostic And Was So Absorbed In Destroying The Ideas Of God That Had Crept Into The Minds Of His Neighbors That He Never Saw God Manifesting Himself In The Little Child That, Half Forgotten, Lived Here And There On The Bounty Of Her Dead Mother's Relatives.

I Wanted To Run Away From Everything But I Wanted To Run Towards Something Too.

Those Who Are To Follow The Arts Should Have A Training In What Is Called Poverty. Given A Comfortable Middle-class Start In Life, The Artist Is Almost Sure To End Up By Becoming A Bellyacher, Constantly Complaining Because The Public Does Not Rush Forward At Once To Proclaim Him.

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When A Man Publishes A Book, There Are So Many Stupid Things Said That He Declares He'll Never Do It Again. The Praise Is Almost Always Worse Than The Criticism.

Love Is Like A Wind Stirring The Grass Beneath Trees On A Black Night,' He Had Said. 'you Must Not Try To Make Love Definite. It Is The Divine Accident Of Life. If You Try To Be Definite And Sure About It And To Live Beneath The Trees, Where Soft Night Winds Blow, The Long Hot Day Of Disappointment Comes Swiftly And The Gritty Dust From Passing Wagons Gathers Upon Lips Inflamed And Made Tender By Kisses.

I Had A World, And It Slipped Away From Me. The War Blew Up More Than The Bodies Of Men....it Blew Ideas Away.

It May Be True Of All Relationships, Not Only Between Fathers And Sons, But Between Men And Women. Nothing Seems Fixed. Everything Is Always Changing. We Seem To Have Very Little Control Over Our Emotional Life.

The Life Of Reality Is Confused, Disorderly, Almost Always Without Apparent Purpose, Whereas In The Artist's Imaginative Life There Is Purpose. There Is Determination To Give The Tale, The Song, The Painting, Form -- To Make It True And Real To The Theme, Not To Life.

I Am Constantly Amazed At How Little Painters Know About Painting, Writers About Writing, Merchants About Business, Manufacturers About Manufacturing. Most Men Just Drift.

I Am A Lover And Have Not Found My Thing To Love. That Is A Big Point If You Know Enough To Realize What I Mean. It Makes My Destruction Inevitable, You See. There Are Few Who Understand That.

I Am A Little Thing, A Tiny Little Thing On The Vast Prairies. I Know Nothing. My Mouth Is Dirty. I Cannot Tell What I Want. My Feet Are Sunk In The Black Swampy Land, But I Am A Lover. I Love Life. In The End Love Shall Save Me.

Realism, In So Far As The Word Means Reality To Life, Is Always Bad Art.

It Is Apparent That Nations Cannot Exist For Us. They Are The Playthings Of Children, Such Toys As Children Break From Boredom And Weariness. The Branch Of A Tree Is My Country. My Freedom Sleeps In A Mulberry Bush. My Country Is In The Shivering Legs Of A Little Lost Dog.

I Am A Lover And Have Not Found My Thing To Love. That Is A Big Point If You Know Enough To Realize What I Mean. It Makes My Destruction Inevitable, You See. There Are Few Who Understand That.

The Moment One Of The People Took One Of The Truths To Himself, Called It Histruth, And Tried To Live His Life By It, He Became A Grotesque And The Truth He Embraced A Falsehood.

The Life Of Reality Is Confused, Disorderly, Almost Always Without Apparent Purpose, Whereas In The Artist's Imaginative Life There Is Purpose. There Is Determination To Give The Tale, The Song, The Painting, Form -- To Make It True And Real To The Theme, Not To Life.

The Thing Of Course, Is To Make Yourself Alive. Most People Remain All Of Their Lives In A Stupor.

Above All Avoid Taking The Advice Of Men Who Have No Brains And Do Not Know What They Are Talking About.

It May Be Life Is Only Worthwhile At Moments. Perhaps That Is All We Ought To Expect.

It Is All Right You're Saying You Do Not Need Other People, But There Are A Lot Of People Who Need You.

The Moment One Of The People Took One Of The Truths To Himself, Called It Histruth, And Tried To Live His Life By It, He Became A Grotesque And The Truth He Embraced A Falsehood.

What's Wrong With This Egotism? If A Man Doesn't Delight In Himself And The Force In Him And Feel That He And It Are Wonders, How Is All Life To Become Important To Him?

Would It Not Be Better To Have It Understood That Realism, In So Far As The Word Means Reality To Life, Is Always Bad Art -- Although It May Possibly Be Very Good Journalism?

I Am A Lover And Have Not Found My Thing To Love.

If I Can Write Everything Out Plainly, Perhaps I Will Myself Understand Better What Has Happened.

I Know About Her, Although She Has Never Crossed My Path," He Said Softly. "i Know About Her Struggles And Her Defeats. It Is Because Of Her Defeats That She Is To Me The Lovely One. Out Of Her Defeats She Has Been Born A New Quality In Woman. I Have A Name For It. I Call It Tandy. I Made Up The Name When I Was A True Dreamer And Before My Body Became Vile. It Is The Quality Of Being Strong To Be Loved. It Is Something Men Need From Women And That They Do Not Get.

In Middle America Men Are Awakening. Like Awkward And Untrained Boys We Begin To Turn Toward Maturity And With Our Awakening We Hunger For Song. But In Our Towns And Fields There Are Few Memory Haunted Places. Here We Stand In Roaring City Streets, On Steaming Coal Heaps, In The Shadow Of Factories From Which Come Only The Grinding Roar Of Machines. We Do Not Sing But Mutter In The Darkness. Our Lips Are Cracked With Dust And With The Heat Of Furnaces. We But Mutter And Feel Our Way Toward The Promise Of Song.

Only The Few Know The Sweetness Of The Twisted Apples.

Everyone In The World Is Christ And They Are All Crucified.

The Writing Of Words Can Lead To All Sorts Of Absurdities.

As Time Passed And He Grew To Know People Better, He Began To Think Of Himself As An Extraordinary Man, One Set Apart From His Fellows. He Wanted Terribly To Make His Life A Thing Of Great Importance, And As He Looked About At His Fellow Men And Saw How Like Clods They Lived It Seemed To Him That He Could Not Bear To Become Also Such A Clod.

I Think The Whole Glory Of Writing Lies In The Fact That It Forces Us Out Of Ourselves And Into The Lives Of Others.

It May Be True Of All Relationships, Not Only Between Fathers And Sons, But Between Men And Women. Nothing Seems Fixed. Everything Is Always Changing. We Seem To Have Very Little Control Over Our Emotional Life.

It Has Long Been My Desire To Be A Little Worm In The Fair Apple Of Progress.

There Is This Thing Called Life. We Live It, Not As We Intend Or Wish, But As We Are Driven On By Forces Outside And Inside Ourselves.

You Can Make It All Right If You Will Only Be Satisfied To Remain Small," I Told Myself. I Had To Keep Saying It Over And Over To Myself. "be Little. Don't Try To Be Big. Work Under The Guns. Be A Little Worm In The Fair Apple Of Life.

Above All Avoid Taking The Advice Of Men Who Have No Brains And Do Not Know What They Are Talking About.

Many People Must Live And Die Alone, Even In Winesburg.

Dare To Be Strong And Courageous. That Is The Road. Venture Anything.

People Keep On Getting Married. Evidently Hope Is Eternal In The Human Breast.

When A Man Publishes A Book, There Are So Many Stupid Things Said That He Declares He'll Never Do It Again. The Praise Is Almost Always Worse Than The Criticism.

The Fools Who Write Articles About Me Think That One Morning I Suddenly Decided To Write And Began To Produce Masterpieces. There Is No Special Trick About Writing, Or Painting Either. I Wrote Constantly For 15 Years Before I Produced Anything With Any Solidity To It.

A Man Needs A Purpose For Real Health.

It Was A Cold Day But The Sun Was Out And The Trees Were Like Great Bonfires Against Gray Distant Fields And Hills.

Wait And Wait. Most People's Lives Are Spent Waiting.

Everyone In The World Is Christ And They Are All Crucified.

...she Thought That Something Unexpressed In Herself Came Forth And Became A Part Of An Unexpressed Something In Them.

Everyone Knows Of The Talking Artists. Throughout All Of The Known History Of The World They Have Gathered In Rooms And Talked. They Talk Of Art And Are Passionately,almost Feverishly, In Earnest About It. They Think It Matters Much More Than It Does.

You Can Make It All Right If You Will Only Be Satisfied To Remain Small," I Told Myself. I Had To Keep Saying It Over And Over To Myself. "be Little. Don't Try To Be Big. Work Under The Guns. Be A Little Worm In The Fair Apple Of Life.

If Our Family Was Poor, Of What Did Our Poverty Consist? If Our Clothes Were Torn The Torn Places Only Let In The Sun And Wind. In The Winter We Had No Overcoats, But That Only Meant We Ran Rather Than Loitered.

Those Who Are To Follow The Arts Should Have A Training In What Is Called Poverty. Given A Comfortable Middle-class Start In Life, The Artist Is Almost Sure To End Up By Becoming A Bellyacher, Constantly Complaining Because The Public Does Not Rush Forward At Once To Proclaim Him.

Learn To Draw. Try To Make Your Hand So Unconsciously Adept That It Will Put Down What You Feel Without Your Having To Think Of Your Hands. Then You Can Think Of The Thing Before You.

There Is A Time In The Life Of Every Boy When He For The First Time Takes The Backward View Of Life. Perhaps That Is The Moment When He Crosses The Line Into Manhood.

The Machines Men Are So Intent On Making Have Carried Them Very Far From The Old Sweet Things.

I Had A World, And It Slipped Away From Me. The War Blew Up More Than The Bodies Of Men....it Blew Ideas Away.

I'll Do Something, Get Into Some Kind Of Work Where Talk Don't Count. Maybe I'll Just Be A Mechanic In A Shop. I Don't Know. I Guess I Don't Care Much. I Just Want To Work And Keep Quiet. That's All I've Got In Mind.

I Have Seldom Written A Story, Long Or Short, That I Did Not Have To Write And Rewrite. There Are Single Stories Of Mine That Have Taken Me Ten Or Twelve Years To Get Written.

Don't Be Carried Off Your Feet By Anything Because It Is Modern - The Latest Thing. Go To The Louvre Often And Spend A Good Deal Of Time Before The Rembrandts, The Delacroixs.

From Being Quite Sure Of Himself And His Future He Becomes Not At All Sure. If He Be An Imaginative Boy A Door Is Torn Open And For The First Time He Looks Out Upon The World, Seeing, As Though They Marched In Procession Before Him, The Countless Figures Of Men Who Before His Time Have Come Out Of Nothingness Into The World, Lived Their Lives And Again Disappeared Into Nothingness. The Sadness Of Sophistication Has Come To The Boy.

It Is No Use. I Find It Impossible To Work With Security Staring Me In The Face.

Wait And Wait. Most People's Lives Are Spent Waiting.

There Is A Note That Comes Into The Human Voice By Which You May Know Real Weariness. It Comes When One Has Been Trying With All His Heart And Soul To Think His Way Along Some Difficult Road Of Thought. Of A Sudden He Finds Himself Unable To Go On. Something Within Him Stops. A Tiny Explosion Takes Place. He Bursts Into Words And Talks, Perhaps Foolishly. Little Side Currents Of His Nature He Didn't Know Were There Run Out And Get Themselves Expressed. It Is At Such Times That A Man Boasts, Uses Big Words, Makes A Fool Of Himself In General.

It May Be Life Is Only Worthwhile At Moments. Perhaps That Is All We Ought To Expect.

Everyone Knows Of The Talking Artists. Throughout All Of The Known History Of The World They Have Gathered In Rooms And Talked. They Talk Of Art And Are Passionately,almost Feverishly, In Earnest About It. They Think It Matters Much More Than It Does.

You Can Make A Killing As A Playwright In America, But You Can't Make A Living.

When A Job Is To Be Done There's No Use Putting It Off.

The Thing Of Course, Is To Make Yourself Alive. Most People Remain All Of Their Lives In A Stupor.

Learn To Draw. Try To Make Your Hand So Unconsciously Adept That It Will Put Down What You Feel Without Your Having To Think Of Your Hands. Then You Can Think Of The Thing Before You.

The Object Of Art Is Not To Make Salable Pictures. It Is To Save Yourself.

If Our Family Was Poor, Of What Did Our Poverty Consist? If Our Clothes Were Torn The Torn Places Only Let In The Sun And Wind. In The Winter We Had No Overcoats, But That Only Meant We Ran Rather Than Loitered.

Friends You Have, People You Love, Die And Are Born Again.

I Am Pregnant With Song. My Body Aches But Do Not Betray Me. I Will Sing Songs And Hide Them Away. I Will Tear Them Into Bits And Throw Them In The Street. The Streets Of My City Are Full Of Dark Holes. I Will Hide My Songs In The Holes Of The Streets.

I Feel That I Am Writing Out Of A Full Life. I Am A Rich Man, Rich In Men Known, In Adventures Had. I Am Rich With Living.

What Is To Be Got At To Make The Air Sweet, The Ground Good Under The Feet, Can Only Be Got At By Failure, Trial, Again And Again And Again Failure.

Dare To Be Strong And Courageous. That Is The Road. Venture Anything.

Interest In The Lives Of Others, The High Evaluation Of These Lives, What Are They But The Overflow Of The Interest A Man Finds In Himself, The Value He Attributes To His Own Being?.

In Middle America Men Are Awakening. Like Awkward And Untrained Boys We Begin To Turn Toward Maturity And With Our Awakening We Hunger For Song. But In Our Towns And Fields There Are Few Memory Haunted Places. Here We Stand In Roaring City Streets, On Steaming Coal Heaps, In The Shadow Of Factories From Which Come Only The Grinding Roar Of Machines. We Do Not Sing But Mutter In The Darkness. Our Lips Are Cracked With Dust And With The Heat Of Furnaces. We But Mutter And Feel Our Way Toward The Promise Of Song.

The Whole Object Of Education Is...to Develop The Mind. The Mind Should Be A Thing That Works.

The Lives Of People Are Like Young Trees In A Forest. They Are Being Choked By Climbing Vines. The Vines Are Old Thoughts And Beliefs Planted By Dead Men.

Only The Few Know The Sweetness Of The Twisted Apples.

I Feel That I Am Writing Out Of A Full Life. I Am A Rich Man, Rich In Men Known, In Adventures Had. I Am Rich With Living.

The Father Spent His Time Talking And Thinking Of Religion. He Proclaimed Himself An Agnostic And Was So Absorbed In Destroying The Ideas Of God That Had Crept Into The Minds Of His Neighbors That He Never Saw God Manifesting Himself In The Little Child That, Half Forgotten, Lived Here And There On The Bounty Of Her Dead Mother's Relatives.

In Youth There Are Always Two Forces Fighting In People. The Warm Unthinking Little Animal Struggles Against The Thing That Reflects And Remembers

The Fruition Of The Year Had Come And The Night Should Have Been Fine With A Moon In The Sky And The Crisp Sharp Promise Of Frost In The Air, But It Wasn't That Way. It Rained And Little Puddles Of Water Shone Under The Street Lamps On Main Street. In The Woods In The Darkness Beyond The Fair Ground Water Dripped From The Black Trees.

Realism, In So Far As The Word Means Reality To Life, Is Always Bad Art.

I Think You Know That When An American Stays Away From New York Too Long Something Happens To Him. Perhaps He Becomes A Little Provincial, A Little Dead And Afraid.

It Might Be That Women Who Have Beennurses Should Not Marry Physicians. They Have Too Much Respect For Physicians, Are Taughtto Have Too Much Respect

As Time Passed And He Grew To Know People Better, He Began To Think Of Himself As An Extraordinary Man, One Set Apart From His Fellows. He Wanted Terribly To Make His Life A Thing Of Great Importance, And As He Looked About At His Fellow Men And Saw How Like Clods They Lived It Seemed To Him That He Could Not Bear To Become Also Such A Clod.

Many People Must Live And Die Alone, Even In Winesburg.

Dare To Be Strong And Courageous. That Is The Road. Venture Anything. Be Brave Enough To Dare To Be Loved. Be Something More Than Man Or Woman. Be Tandy.

I Think That Those Of Us Who Are What Are Called Intellectuals Make A Terrible Mistake In Overvaluing The Yen We Have For The Arts, Books, Etc. There Is A Sweet, Fine Quality In Life That Has Nothing To Do With This, And More And More I Find Myself Valuing Myself With Those People.

What Is To Be Got At To Make The Air Sweet, The Ground Good Under The Feet, Can Only Be Got At By Failure, Trial, Again And Again And Again Failure.

The Writer, An Old Man With A White Moustache, Had Some Difficulty Getting Into Bed.

I Go About Looking At Horses And Cattle. They Eat Grass, Make Love, Work When They Have To, Bear Their Young. I Am Sick With Envy Of Them.

I'll Do Something, Get Into Some Kind Of Work Where Talk Don't Count. Maybe I'll Just Be A Mechanic In A Shop. I Don't Know. I Guess I Don't Care Much. I Just Want To Work And Keep Quiet. That's All I've Got In Mind.

In That High Place In The Darkness The Two Oddly Sensitive Human Atoms Held Each Other Tightly And Waited. In The Mind Of Each Was The Same Thought. "i Have Come To This Lonely Place And Here Is This Other," Was The Substance Of The Thing Felt.

I Know About Her, Although She Has Never Crossed My Path," He Said Softly. "i Know About Her Struggles And Her Defeats. It Is Because Of Her Defeats That She Is To Me The Lovely One. Out Of Her Defeats She Has Been Born A New Quality In Woman. I Have A Name For It. I Call It Tandy. I Made Up The Name When I Was A True Dreamer And Before My Body Became Vile. It Is The Quality Of Being Strong To Be Loved. It Is Something Men Need From Women And That They Do Not Get.

Whereas God, For Reasons Of His Own, Sometimes Chooses To Let The Machine Answer. 'the Supreme Being Is Unavailable To Come To The Phone At This Time, But He Wants You To Know What Your Call Is Important To Him. In The Meantime, For Sins Of Pride, Press One. For Avarice, Press Two.

I Have Seldom Written A Story, Long Or Short, That I Did Not Have To Write And Rewrite. There Are Single Stories Of Mine That Have Taken Me Ten Or Twelve Years To Get Written.

It Is Apparent That Nations Cannot Exist For Us. They Are The Playthings Of Children, Such Toys As Children Break From Boredom And Weariness. The Branch Of A Tree Is My Country. My Freedom Sleeps In A Mulberry Bush. My Country Is In The Shivering Legs Of A Little Lost Dog.

Her Thoughts Ran Away To Her Girlhood With Its Passionate Longing For Adventure And She Remembered The Arms Of Men That Had Held Her When Adventure Was A Possible Thing For Her. Particularly She Remembered One Who Had For A Time Been Her Lover And Who In The Moment Of His Passion Had Cried Out To Her More Than A Hundred Times, Saying The Same Words Madly Over And Over: "you Dear! You Dear! You Lovely Dear!" The Words, She Thought, Expressed Something She Would Have Liked To Have Achieved In Life.

Draw Things That Have Some Meaning To You. An Apple, What Does It Mean? The Object Drawn Doesn't Matter So Much. It's What You Feel About It, What It Means To You. A Masterpiece Could Be Made Of A Dish Of Turnips.

The Writer, An Old Man With A White Moustache, Had Some Difficulty Getting Into Bed.

It Is All Right You're Saying You Do Not Need Other People, But There Are A Lot Of People Who Need You.

I Am A Lover And Have Not Found My Thing To Love.

The Eighteen Years He Has Lived Seem But A Moment, A Breathing Space In The Long March Of Humanity. Already He Hears Death Calling. With All His Heart He Wants To Come Close To Some Other Human, Touch Someone With His Hands, Be Touched By The Hand Of Another.

Breathing Space

Dare To Be Strong And Courageous. That Is The Road. Venture Anything. Be Brave Enough To Dare To Be Loved. Be Something More Than Man Or Woman. Be Tandy.

A Man Needs A Purpose For Real Health.

Draw Things That Have Some Meaning To You. An Apple, What Does It Mean? The Object Drawn Doesn't Matter So Much. It's What You Feel About It, What It Means To You. A Masterpiece Could Be Made Of A Dish Of Turnips.

Sometimes I Think We Americans Are The Loneliest People In The World. To Be Sure, We Hunger For The Power Of Affection, The Self-acceptance That Gives Life. It Is The Oldest And Strongest Hunger In The World. But Hungering Is Not Enough.

Draw, Draw, Hundreds Of Drawings. Try To Remain Humble. Smartness Kills Everything.

In The Beginning When The World Was Young There Were A Great Many Thoughts But No Such Thing As Truth. Man Made The Truths Himself And Each Truth Was A Composite Of A Great Many Vague Thoughts. All About In The World Were Truths And They Were All Beautiful.

Friends You Have, People You Love, Die And Are Born Again.

Next To Occupation Is The Building Up Of Good Taste. That Is Difficult, Slow Work. Few Achieve It. It Means All The Difference In The World In The End.

Don't Be Carried Off Your Feet By Anything Because It Is Modern - The Latest Thing. Go To The Louvre Often And Spend A Good Deal Of Time Before The Rembrandts, The Delacroixs.

The Fools Who Write Articles About Me Think That One Morning I Suddenly Decided To Write And Began To Produce Masterpieces. There Is No Special Trick About Writing, Or Painting Either. I Wrote Constantly For 15 Years Before I Produced Anything With Any Solidity To It.

There Is A Note That Comes Into The Human Voice By Which You May Know Real Weariness. It Comes When One Has Been Trying With All His Heart And Soul To Think His Way Along Some Difficult Road Of Thought. Of A Sudden He Finds Himself Unable To Go On. Something Within Him Stops. A Tiny Explosion Takes Place. He Bursts Into Words And Talks, Perhaps Foolishly. Little Side Currents Of His Nature He Didn't Know Were There Run Out And Get Themselves Expressed. It Is At Such Times That A Man Boasts, Uses Big Words, Makes A Fool Of Himself In General.

My Father, A Ruined Dandy From The South, Had Been Reduced To Keeping A Small Harness-repair Shop And, When That Failed, He Became Ostensibly A House-and-barn Painter. However, He Did Not Call Himself A House-painter. The Idea Was Not Flashy Enough For Him. He Called Himself A "sign-writer.

The Whole Object Of Education Is...to Develop The Mind. The Mind Should Be A Thing That Works.

There Is Within Every Human Being A Deep Well Of Thinking Over Which A Heavy Iron Lid Is Kept Clamped.

All Of The People Of My Time Were Bound With Chains. They Had Forgotten The Long Fields And The Standing Corn. They Had Forgotten The West Winds.

He Thought About Himself And To The Young That Always Brings Sadness.

Love Is Like A Wind Stirring The Grass Beneath Trees On A Black Night,' He Had Said. 'you Must Not Try To Make Love Definite. It Is The Divine Accident Of Life. If You Try To Be Definite And Sure About It And To Live Beneath The Trees, Where Soft Night Winds Blow, The Long Hot Day Of Disappointment Comes Swiftly And The Gritty Dust From Passing Wagons Gathers Upon Lips Inflamed And Made Tender By Kisses.

If You Are To Become A Writer You'll Have To Stop Fooling With Words.

I Think You Know That When An American Stays Away From New York Too Long Something Happens To Him. Perhaps He Becomes A Little Provincial, A Little Dead And Afraid.

The Writing Of Words Can Lead To All Sorts Of Absurdities.

Understanding Quotes: Their Essence and Application

Quotes, or quotations, are powerful tools in communication, encapsulating ideas, emotions, and wisdom in concise expressions. They serve various purposes across different contexts, from academic writing to everyday conversation.

1. Defining Quotes

A quote is a repetition of someone else's statement or thoughts. It can be a direct replication of words spoken or written by another individual, often used to support arguments, provide evidence, or convey profound insights.

2. The Importance of Quotes

2.1. Enhancing Credibility

Incorporating quotes from authoritative sources can bolster the credibility of your work. By referencing experts or primary sources, you demonstrate thorough research and a solid foundation for your arguments.

2.2. Providing Evidence

Quotes serve as concrete evidence to support claims. In academic and professional writing, they validate points made, offering readers a basis to trust the information presented.

2.3. Conveying Emotions and Perspectives

Quotes can encapsulate emotions and perspectives succinctly. They allow writers to express complex feelings or viewpoints through the words of others, often more eloquently than paraphrasing.

3. Types of Quotes

3.1. Direct Quotes

Direct quotes involve copying the exact words from a source, enclosed in quotation marks. They are used when the original wording is significant or particularly well-expressed.

3.2. Indirect Quotes (Paraphrasing)

Indirect quotes restate the original message in your own words. While not enclosed in quotation marks, they still require proper attribution to the original source.

3.3. Block Quotes

Block quotes are lengthy direct quotations, formatted as a separate block of text. They are typically used for quotes exceeding a certain length, varying by citation style. For instance, in APA style, quotes longer than 40 words are formatted as block quotes.

4. Proper Usage of Quotes

4.1. Contextual Relevance

Ensure that the quote you choose is relevant to the topic and adds value to your content. Avoid inserting quotes solely for decorative purposes.

4.2. Integration into Your Writing

Seamlessly integrate quotes into your writing. Introduce them appropriately and follow up with analysis or commentary to connect them to your main points.

4.3. Attribution and Citation

Always attribute quotes to their original authors and provide proper citations according to the required style guide (APA, MLA, Chicago, etc.).

5. Common Mistakes to Avoid

5.1. Overusing Quotes

Relying too heavily on quotes can overshadow your voice. Use them sparingly to support your arguments, not replace them.

5.2. Lack of Analysis

Presenting a quote without analysis or explanation can leave readers questioning its relevance. Always follow up with your interpretation or discussion.

5.3. Misquoting or Taking Out of Context

Ensure that quotes are accurate and not taken out of context, as this can mislead readers and undermine your credibility.

6. Quotes in Different Contexts

6.1. Academic Writing

In academic writing, quotes are used to support arguments, provide evidence, and engage with existing literature. Proper citation is crucial to avoid plagiarism.

6.2. Journalism

Journalists use quotes to provide firsthand accounts, add authenticity, and present multiple perspectives within a story.

6.3. Literature and Creative Writing

In literature, quotes can be used to convey character voices, themes, and stylistic elements. They enrich narratives and provide depth to storytelling.

7. Punctuation and Formatting

Understanding the correct punctuation and formatting of quotes is essential:

Quotation Marks: Always enclose direct quotes within quotation marks.

Punctuation Placement: In American English, periods and commas are placed inside quotation marks, while colons and semicolons are placed outside.

Block Quotes: For longer quotes, format them as block quotes without quotation marks, and indent the entire block.

8. Ethical Considerations

Ethical use of quotes involves accurate representation, proper attribution, and respect for intellectual property. Misuse can lead to plagiarism, which carries serious academic and professional consequences.

9. Tools for Managing Quotes

Utilize tools like citation generators and plagiarism checkers to manage quotes effectively. These tools help ensure proper formatting and originality in your writing.

Conclusion

Quotes are invaluable in enriching content, providing evidence, and conveying complex ideas succinctly. When used appropriately, they enhance the quality and credibility of your writing. Always ensure relevance, proper integration, and ethical usage to maximize their impact.

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