o lost
suffer one more quote, this one from the end:
And now, all that lost magic had come to life again here in the little whitened square, here in this old French town, and he was closer to his childhood and his father's life of power and magnificence than he could eve be again in savage new America; and as the knowledge of these strange, these lost yet familiar things returned to him, his heart was filled with all the mystery of time, dark time, the mystery of strange, million-visaged time that haunts us with the briefness of our days.
He thought of home.
I finished reading Of Time and the River yesterday. Combined with Look Homeward, Angel that's just about 1,500 pages of Thomas Wolfe's writing, and I've become quite attatched to him. His storytelling(I feel like I should point out that I'm aware of some vicious criticism and feel like those critics entirely miss the point of reading him), his writing, his life...I've never known anyone like him. After reading the story of his youth and young manhood lived out by a boy named Eugene Gant, I just want to cry on his shoulder and ask him not to forget me.
There are several more books of his, and I will read them, but I don't know when. He left such an enormous body of work, I can't believe he lived and wrote and experienced so much before dying at age 38.
Often I was reminded of Eugene Oneill, who was actually part of the same "lost" generation of writers, and my next pet-project is a comparative essay of how the authors deal with the same topics, feelings and themes.
And now, all that lost magic had come to life again here in the little whitened square, here in this old French town, and he was closer to his childhood and his father's life of power and magnificence than he could eve be again in savage new America; and as the knowledge of these strange, these lost yet familiar things returned to him, his heart was filled with all the mystery of time, dark time, the mystery of strange, million-visaged time that haunts us with the briefness of our days.
He thought of home.
I finished reading Of Time and the River yesterday. Combined with Look Homeward, Angel that's just about 1,500 pages of Thomas Wolfe's writing, and I've become quite attatched to him. His storytelling(I feel like I should point out that I'm aware of some vicious criticism and feel like those critics entirely miss the point of reading him), his writing, his life...I've never known anyone like him. After reading the story of his youth and young manhood lived out by a boy named Eugene Gant, I just want to cry on his shoulder and ask him not to forget me.
There are several more books of his, and I will read them, but I don't know when. He left such an enormous body of work, I can't believe he lived and wrote and experienced so much before dying at age 38.
Often I was reminded of Eugene Oneill, who was actually part of the same "lost" generation of writers, and my next pet-project is a comparative essay of how the authors deal with the same topics, feelings and themes.