Podcasts about Theodore Dreiser

Play Episode Listen Later Mar 7, 2023 46:30

A direct descendent of a signer of both the Declaration of Independence and the United States Constitution, Morrow Wilson graduated from The Putney School and from Columbia College, where he studied English and American literature with, among others, Mark Van Doren and Lionel Trilling. Though admitted to Columbia's Graduate School of English, he chose not to pursue an academic career.His father was a writer - a protege of Theodore Dreiser, author of some three dozen books as well as articles in every major American magazine, and a reporter for The Arkansas Gazette, The St. Louis Post-Dispatch and The New York Times. Doris Grumbach devoted her entire column in The New Republic to Morrow Wilson's first novel, M.I.M. Eliot Fremont-Smith (book critic of The Village Voice, The New York Times and, before that, Editor-in-Chief of Little-Brown) wrote about another, David Sunshine, that it is "delightful and full of truth." And literary agent Virginia Barber described his work this way: "a wonderful writing style" with "tremendous drive and energy."A professional playwright, theatrical producer and award-winning New York actor, as well, Morrow Wilson has written novels, plays, columns, editorials, reviews, short stories and articles. He has been an anthology, encyclopedia, and trade book editor, a publishing executive and twice a small press CEO, has appeared on every New York City broadcast television channel, nationally on Inside Edition, Entertainment Tonight and Access Hollywood, on many radio talk shows, and has been cast in more than 100 New York City stage productions, numerous commercials and six New York soap operas.He has been written up in The New York Times, The New Republic, Crain's New York Business, MORE Magazine, Show Business, The Star, The National Enquirer, The Globe, Columbia College Today and Who's Who in America. He is a member in good standing of the Authors League of America, the Dramatists Guild and the Columbia College Resource Council for the Arts, a life member of The Actors' Fund of America, this country's oldest theatrical charity (recipient of its Encore Award), and a board member of The Players, this country's oldest theatrical and literary social club.*** AND NOW ***The ‘X' Zone TV Channel on SimulTV - www.simultv.comThe ‘X' Zone TV Channel Radio Feed (Free - No Subscription Required) - https://www.spreaker.com/show/xztv-the-x-zone-tv-show-audio The ‘X' Chronicles Newspaper - www.xchroniclesnewspaper.com (Free)To contact Rob McConnell - misterx@xzoneradiotv.com

Rob McConnell Interviews - MORROW WILSON - Why The 60's Still Fascinate Us

Play Episode Listen Later Nov 14, 2022 46:30

A direct descendent of a signer of both the Declaration of Independence and the United States Constitution, Morrow Wilson graduated from The Putney School and from Columbia College, where he studied English and American literature with, among others, Mark Van Doren and Lionel Trilling. Though admitted to Columbia's Graduate School of English, he chose not to pursue an academic career.His father was a writer - a protege of Theodore Dreiser, author of some three dozen books as well as articles in every major American magazine, and a reporter for The Arkansas Gazette, The St. Louis Post-Dispatch and The New York Times. Doris Grumbach devoted her entire column in The New Republic to Morrow Wilson's first novel, M.I.M. Eliot Fremont-Smith (book critic of The Village Voice, The New York Times and, before that, Editor-in-Chief of Little-Brown) wrote about another, David Sunshine, that it is "delightful and full of truth." And literary agent Virginia Barber described his work this way: "a wonderful writing style" with "tremendous drive and energy."A professional playwright, theatrical producer and award-winning New York actor, as well, Morrow Wilson has written novels, plays, columns, editorials, reviews, short stories and articles. He has been an anthology, encyclopedia, and trade book editor, a publishing executive and twice a small press CEO, has appeared on every New York City broadcast television channel, nationally on Inside Edition, Entertainment Tonight and Access Hollywood, on many radio talk shows, and has been cast in more than 100 New York City stage productions, numerous commercials and six New York soap operas.He has been written up in The New York Times, The New Republic, Crain's New York Business, MORE Magazine, Show Business, The Star, The National Enquirer, The Globe, Columbia College Today and Who's Who in America. He is a member in good standing of the Authors League of America, the Dramatists Guild and the Columbia College Resource Council for the Arts, a life member of The Actors' Fund of America, this country's oldest theatrical charity (recipient of its Encore Award), and a board member of The Players, this country's oldest theatrical and literary social club.*** AND NOW ***BEAUTIFUL MIND COFFEE is delicious coffee your brain will love.Made with ethically sourced 100% Arabica coffee grown in the volcanic soil of the Tolima Columbia region, BEAUTIFUL MIND COFFEE is roasted and ground in small batches, to ensure each bag contains a wonderful full bodied artisan coffee.BEAUTIFUL MIND COFFEE contains herbal ingredients to aid in boosting your daily mental clarity and focus.Maca root powder, green tea extract and American ginseng have all been selected for their ability to support good brain health.Taking care of your brain's health now can help delay or prevent the onset of cognitive dysfunction, including dementia, Alzheimer's, and more general memory loss as you get older just by enjoying the delicious flavor of our roasted coffee and herbal ingredients found exclusively in BEAUTIFUL MIND COFFEE .For more information on BEAUTIFUL MIND COFFEE visit us online at www.beautifulmindcoffee.ca.BEAUTIFUL MIND COFFEE is NOW available at Amazon.ca

Rob McConnell Interviews - MORROW WILSON - Why The 60's Still Fascinate Us

america new york city moon coffee color fingers relaxation bedtime lee rosevere great city theodore dreiser

Play Episode Listen Later Oct 11, 2022 41:28

A direct descendent of a signer of both the Declaration of Independence and the United States Constitution, Morrow Wilson graduated from The Putney School and from Columbia College, where he studied English and American literature with, among others, Mark Van Doren and Lionel Trilling. Though admitted to Columbia's Graduate School of English, he chose not to pursue an academic career.His father was a writer - a protege of Theodore Dreiser, author of some three dozen books as well as articles in every major American magazine, and a reporter for The Arkansas Gazette, The St. Louis Post-Dispatch and The New York Times. Doris Grumbach devoted her entire column in The New Republic to Morrow Wilson's first novel, M.I.M. Eliot Fremont-Smith (book critic of The Village Voice, The New York Times and, before that, Editor-in-Chief of Little-Brown) wrote about another, David Sunshine, that it is "delightful and full of truth." And literary agent Virginia Barber described his work this way: "a wonderful writing style" with "tremendous drive and energy."A professional playwright, theatrical producer and award-winning New York actor, as well, Morrow Wilson has written novels, plays, columns, editorials, reviews, short stories and articles. He has been an anthology, encyclopedia, and trade book editor, a publishing executive and twice a small press CEO, has appeared on every New York City broadcast television channel, nationally on Inside Edition, Entertainment Tonight and Access Hollywood, on many radio talk shows, and has been cast in more than 100 New York City stage productions, numerous commercials and six New York soap operas.He has been written up in The New York Times, The New Republic, Crain's New York Business, MORE Magazine, Show Business, The Star, The National Enquirer, The Globe, Columbia College Today and Who's Who in America. He is a member in good standing of the Authors League of America, the Dramatists Guild and the Columbia College Resource Council for the Arts, a life member of The Actors' Fund of America, this country's oldest theatrical charity (recipient of its Encore Award), and a board member of The Players, this country's oldest theatrical and literary social club.*** AND NOW ***The ‘X' Zone TV Channel on SimulTV - www.simultv.comThe ‘X' Zone TV Channel Radio Feed (Free - No Subscription Required) - https://www.spreaker.com/show/xztv-the-x-zone-tv-show-audio The ‘X' Chronicles Newspaper - www.xchroniclesnewspaper.com (Free)To contact Rob McConnell - misterx@xzoneradiotv.com

Relaxation Rewind! The Color of a Great City, by Theodore Dreiser, Part 1

Boring Books for Bedtime

Play Episode Listen Later Sep 5, 2022 49:51

In this newly remastered episode, let's journey back to New York City in the early 1900s with one of America's great writers and his dreamy portrait of the city that never sleeps. Fingers crossed you will! ***Boring Books for Bedtime will be on break through September, so enjoy some remastered episodes from the wayback. We'll return with new readings for sleep in October!*** Help us stay 100% listener-supported and ad-free for all! Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/boringbookspod Buy Me a Coffee: https://www.buymeacoffee.com/d5kcMsW Read “The Color of a Great City” here: https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/61043 Music: "Watching Whales on the Moon,” by Lee Rosevere, licensed under CC-BY: https://leerosevere.bandcamp.com If you'd like to suggest a copyright-free reading for soft-spoken relaxation to help you overcome insomnia, anxiety and other sleep issues, connect on our website, boringbookspod.com.

Novel RomAntics Literature of Chicago Series #1: Theodore Dreiser's Sister Carrie (1900)

The Trans-Atlanticist

Play Episode Listen Later Jul 29, 2022 55:31

In this episode, host Douglas Cowie and his guest, Dr. Katie McGettigan, Senior Lecturer in American Literature at Royal Holloway, University of London, discuss Sister Carrie, a novel by Theodore Dreiser. Published in 1900, it tells the story of a young woman seduced by the material trappings of Chicago and its men

chicago literature published series 1 senior lecturer university of london romantics american literature royal holloway theodore dreiser sister carrie

gaylor swifties of color thoughts on race, gender, & Charli XCX's album CRASH

The Lavender Menace

Play Episode Listen Later Apr 4, 2022 80:13

episode 11 of season 3: an 80 minute episode from us???? crazy! in responding to a listener submitted hot take from Adin, we discuss our experiences with and how we engage with race/gender/perception and community as gaylor swifties of color, when a lot of the gaylor community seems to be white. Sunny mentions @sillygoofygirlseekinggf on Tik Tok, and Renaissance addresses their apprehension towards Taylor's shifting fan base. We discuss the queerness of hyper femininity and Taylor Swift's queerness, especially in regards to who and why some people recognize it. Simply put, the other pop girlies are not doing it like blondie! Renaissance also references Whitney Houston as an example of a woman existing in the public perception as an icon for the gay community, when she, like many other queer pop icons, was gay herself. Sunny references the Patreon exclusive bonus episode we recorded discussing the 1996 film The Watermelon Woman (dir. Cheryl Dunye.) ( btw join our Patreon for access to 2 bonus episodes a month as well as early access to episodes and the video recordings of episodes! https://www.patreon.com/TheLavenderMenace) For the media analysis portion of this episode, we talk hyperpop and rank + review the new Charli XCX album, CRASH. In our media recommendations, Renaissance pitches the 1927 silent film, Children of Divorce, which is surprisingly non-problematic and leads Sunny to mention Henry James' The Portrait of a Lady and Theodore Dreiser's Sister Carrie. Sunny's book recommendation this week is the recently released essay collection Girls Can Kiss Now by Jill Gutowitz, whom we discussed in our previous episode's hot take about the New York Post's shitty article about lesbian fashion. Jill, if you're listening, you should come on the podcast after Renaissance reads your book!!! We had the author of The Divines, Ellie Eaton, on the podcast season 1, so hit us up at (and other listeners, send your hot takes here as well) thelavendermenacepodcast@gmail.com. You can find us on Instagram, Twitter, and Letterboxd for more unhinged swiftie ramblings. XOXO

Episode 216: 'Sister Carrie' by Theodore Dreiser

The Great Books

Play Episode Listen Later Feb 22, 2022 33:56

John J. Miller is joined by Miriam Gogol of Mercy College to discuss Theodore Dreiser's book 'Sister Carrie.'

books conservatives national review mercy college theodore dreiser john j miller sister carrie

Goodbye, Billy

Old Blood

Play Episode Listen Later Jan 17, 2022 63:48

New York's Adirondack Mountains have long been praised for their tranquility and restorative powers on the body and soul. But in 1906, a tragedy shattered this illusion and brought a girl's heartbreak to the front page of newspapers across the country. Sources:Brandon, Craig. Murder in the Adirondacks: An American Tragedy Revisited. (Utica: North Country Books, 2003).Brownell, Joseph W. and Wawrzaszek, Patricia A., Adirondack Tragedy: The Gillette Murder Case of 1906. (Heart of the Lake Publishing, 1906).The Daily Sentinel. “‘Poor Little Girl' Said the World.” March 26, 1908.Herman, Susan N., “People v. Gillette and Theodore Dreiser's An American Tragedy: Law v. Literature.” Judicial Notice. Issue 11. 2016.The Post Standard. “Made No Effort to Save Drowning Girl, Gillette Confesses.” December 1, 1906.“Chester E. Gillette Guilty of Murder in First Degree: Verdict Found in Five Hours.” December 5, 1906.“Chester Gillette Dies To-Day in the Electric Chair.” March 30, 1908.“First Shock Sends Slayer into Eternity.” March 31, 1908.Schechter, Harold. Ripped from the Headlines!: The Shocking True Stories Behind the Movies' Most Memorable Crimes. (New York: Little A, 2020).The Syracuse Herald.“Girl Drowned; Escort Missing,” July 13, 1906The Washington Times. “Gillette Pays Death Penalty for his Crime.” March 30, 1908.The Westbury Evening Democrat. March 30, 1908.Music: Dellasera by Shane Ivers - https://www.silvermansound.com

Charlotte Angel Connection Episode 132: Dmitry Norenko, CEO and co-founder of upSWOT

Charlotte Angel Connection

Play Episode Listen Later Jan 13, 2022 55:46

Today we welcome Dmitry Norenko, CEO and founder of upSWOT, to the podcast. Dmitry and the team at upSWOT have been hard at work building a platform to help small and medium sized businesses (SMBs) make better decisions based on insight, personalized advice, and cashflow insights from within their banking portal. Dmitry and his team moved to Charlotte back in the summer of 2020. Originally from Ukraine, they had moved out to California to take their business through an accelerator program on the west coast. But upon completing those and being thrown full force into a pandemic, they relocated to Charlotte to continue what they started. Dmitry originally reached out to me in August 2020 - I remember asking him how he was holding up in the humidity! Needless to say it was a little bit of a shock to his system. But he and his team haven't let that stop them. He immediately jumped into a demo of the software to show what they had been building and how impactful it can be for SMBs - and by extension the banks who service them. Over the last 2 years, the team has refined and expanded the offering and experience phenomenal growth. They are now working with over 50 financial institutions - and this includes Mastercard. Sitting down with him in this podcast interview was great as we were able to talk about the business. I love his comment that "he is his company and his company is him". You'll listen to him in this podcast and realize that means it is high energy, focused, and impactful. I really enjoyed listening to him to talk about the cultural differences between building success in the US versus back home in Ukraine and in eastern Europe. He dives further into how he became different through a book he read at age 10. The book, written by Theodore Dreiser, talked about a guy who kept trying and failing before he created success. It obviously stuck with Dmitry because about 5 minutes before this story he said, "by making mistakes we become better." They are definitely getting better. Listen to the rest of the podcast with Dmitry and learn about him and the company they've been building. Learn how he wants the success of his company to change the cultural differences about success in the Ukraine. And learn how they are going to continue to make mistakes on their way to building a successful company. William Bissett is the owner of and an Investment Advisor Representative of Portus Wealth Advisors, a Registered Investment Adviser. Registration does not imply a certain level of skill or training. Opinions expressed on this program do not necessarily reflect those of Portus Wealth Advisors. The topics discussed and opinions given are not intended to address the specific needs of any listener. Portus Wealth Advisors does not offer legal or tax advice, listeners are encouraged to discuss their financial needs with the appropriate professional regarding your individual circumstance. Investments described herein may be speculative and may involve a substantial risk of loss. Interests may be offered only to persons who qualify as accredited investors under applicable state and federal regulation or an eligible employee of the management company. There generally is no public market for the Interests. Prospective investors should particularly note that many factors affect performance, including changes in market conditions and interest rates, and other economic, political or financial developments. Past performance is not, and should not be construed as, indicative of future results.

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Episode 281 - Biblical Military Men - Little-Read Books - "Oops" - Last Wills And Testaments - It Was The '60s

Instant Trivia

Play Episode Listen Later Nov 18, 2021 7:48

Welcome to the Instant Trivia podcast episode 281, where we ask the best trivia on the Internet. Round 1. Category: Biblical Military Men 1: This Philistine had a "helmet of brass" and a coat of mail weighing 5,000 shekels. Goliath. 2: The Roman centurion Cornelius, possibly the first Gentile Christian, was converted by this fisherman. Peter. 3: Moses designated him to defend Israel against Amalek; he later brought down the walls of Jericho. Joshua. 4: Benaiah was commander of this wise king's army. Solomon. 5: This Hittite soldier was sent to the front lines of battle so that David could take his wife Bathsheba. Uriah. Round 2. Category: Little-Read Books 1: This early sci-fi writer tackled polar exploration (from his study) in the 1860s with "Aventures du Capitaine Hatteras". Jules Verne. 2: You might have to be on a desert island before you get around to his 1722 novel "Colonel Jack". Daniel Defoe. 3: This author of "An American Tragedy" also wrote a little-read treatise called "Tragic America". Theodore Dreiser. 4: Many readers don't get through the Slough of Despond in this 1678 John Bunyan work. The Pilgrim's Progress. 5: Kant strained brains with this type of analysis "Of Pure Reason" and "Of Judgement". Critique. Round 3. Category: "Oops" 1: Kellogg's makes "Froot" ones. Loops. 2: Cries of a crane, or a cry when you drop something, butterfingers!. Whoops. 3: Soldiers trained to lead an attack are called shock these. Troops. 4: They keep a barrel's staves together. Hoops. 5: It's what Oliver Goldsmith's woman does "to conquer". Stoops. Round 4. Category: Last Wills And Testaments 1: This "commodore" willed $90 million to his son William, $7.5 million to his 4 grandsons, and to his 8 daughters... well, not as much. (Cornelius) Vanderbilt. 2: After his 1616 death, his will stipulated that his "second best bed" go to his wife, Anne, which does beg a question.... Shakespeare. 3: Item 6 in his will:"I give... unto my wife, Zelda... in the event she regain her sanity all of my household and kitchen furniture". F. Scott Fitzgerald. 4: This Chief Justice of the United States from 1969 to 1986 left a self-written 176-word will with no provisions for estate taxes; oops. Warren Burger. 5: His will called for a "secret society" to take back the U.S. for Britain (his "scholarship" gets much more press). (Cecil) Rhodes. Round 5. Category: It Was The '60s 1: A July 21, 1969 Wapakoneta, Ohio Daily News headline about a local boy read, "Neil steps on" this. the Moon. 2: This Argentine-born minister for Castro left Cuba in 1965, reappearing as a fighter in Bolivia. Che Guevara. 3: On July 3, 1962 this European president proclaimed the independence of Algeria. De Gaulle. 4: In "The Feminine Mystique", she wrote of the suburban wife "afraid to ask even of herself... 'Is this all?'". Betty Friedan. 5: Seen here, his attempt to enroll at Ole Miss in 1962 led to riots but was ultimately successful. James Meredith. Thanks for listening! Come back tomorrow for more exciting trivia!

Rob McConnell Interviews - MORROW WILSON - Why The 60's Still Fascinate Us

The Best of The 'X' Zone Radio/TV Show with Rob McConnell

Play Episode Listen Later Nov 8, 2021 41:28

A direct descendent of a signer of both the Declaration of Independence and the United States Constitution, Morrow Wilson graduated from The Putney School and from Columbia College, where he studied English and American literature with, among others, Mark Van Doren and Lionel Trilling. Though admitted to Columbia's Graduate School of English, he chose not to pursue an academic career.His father was a writer - a protege of Theodore Dreiser, author of some three dozen books as well as articles in every major American magazine, and a reporter for The Arkansas Gazette, The St. Louis Post-Dispatch and The New York Times. Doris Grumbach devoted her entire column in The New Republic to Morrow Wilson's first novel, M.I.M. Eliot Fremont-Smith (book critic of The Village Voice, The New York Times and, before that, Editor-in-Chief of Little-Brown) wrote about another, David Sunshine, that it is "delightful and full of truth." And literary agent Virginia Barber described his work this way: "a wonderful writing style" with "tremendous drive and energy."A professional playwright, theatrical producer and award-winning New York actor, as well, Morrow Wilson has written novels, plays, columns, editorials, reviews, short stories and articles. He has been an anthology, encyclopedia, and trade book editor, a publishing executive and twice a small press CEO, has appeared on every New York City broadcast television channel, nationally on Inside Edition, Entertainment Tonight and Access Hollywood, on many radio talk shows, and has been cast in more than 100 New York City stage productions, numerous commercials and six New York soap operas.He has been written up in The New York Times, The New Republic, Crain's New York Business, MORE Magazine, Show Business, The Star, The National Enquirer, The Globe, Columbia College Today and Who's Who in America. He is a member in good standing of the Authors League of America, the Dramatists Guild and the Columbia College Resource Council for the Arts, a life member of The Actors' Fund of America, this country's oldest theatrical charity (recipient of its Encore Award), and a board member of The Players, this country's oldest theatrical and literary social club.*** AND NOW ***The ‘X' Zone TV Channel on SimulTV - www.simultv.comThe ‘X' Zone TV Channel Radio Feed (Free - No Subscription Required) - https://www.spreaker.com/show/xztv-the-x-zone-tv-show-audio The ‘X' Chronicles Newspaper - www.xchroniclesnewspaper.com (Free)To contact Rob McConnell - misterx@xzoneradiotv.com

Rob McConnell Interviews - MORROW WILSON - Why The 60's Still Fascinate Us

An Even Bigger Fly On The Wall

Play Episode Listen Later Nov 8, 2021 41:28

A direct descendent of a signer of both the Declaration of Independence and the United States Constitution, Morrow Wilson graduated from The Putney School and from Columbia College, where he studied English and American literature with, among others, Mark Van Doren and Lionel Trilling. Though admitted to Columbia's Graduate School of English, he chose not to pursue an academic career.His father was a writer - a protege of Theodore Dreiser, author of some three dozen books as well as articles in every major American magazine, and a reporter for The Arkansas Gazette, The St. Louis Post-Dispatch and The New York Times. Doris Grumbach devoted her entire column in The New Republic to Morrow Wilson's first novel, M.I.M. Eliot Fremont-Smith (book critic of The Village Voice, The New York Times and, before that, Editor-in-Chief of Little-Brown) wrote about another, David Sunshine, that it is "delightful and full of truth." And literary agent Virginia Barber described his work this way: "a wonderful writing style" with "tremendous drive and energy."A professional playwright, theatrical producer and award-winning New York actor, as well, Morrow Wilson has written novels, plays, columns, editorials, reviews, short stories and articles. He has been an anthology, encyclopedia, and trade book editor, a publishing executive and twice a small press CEO, has appeared on every New York City broadcast television channel, nationally on Inside Edition, Entertainment Tonight and Access Hollywood, on many radio talk shows, and has been cast in more than 100 New York City stage productions, numerous commercials and six New York soap operas.He has been written up in The New York Times, The New Republic, Crain's New York Business, MORE Magazine, Show Business, The Star, The National Enquirer, The Globe, Columbia College Today and Who's Who in America. He is a member in good standing of the Authors League of America, the Dramatists Guild and the Columbia College Resource Council for the Arts, a life member of The Actors' Fund of America, this country's oldest theatrical charity (recipient of its Encore Award), and a board member of The Players, this country's oldest theatrical and literary social club.*** AND NOW ***The ‘X' Zone TV Channel on SimulTV - www.simultv.comThe ‘X' Zone TV Channel Radio Feed (Free - No Subscription Required) - https://www.spreaker.com/show/xztv-the-x-zone-tv-show-audio The ‘X' Chronicles Newspaper - www.xchroniclesnewspaper.com (Free)To contact Rob McConnell - misterx@xzoneradiotv.com

1348. Music/songs. Audiobook. 11/01/21.

Play Episode Listen Later Nov 1, 2021 14:08

Play Store Audiobook, "The Devil in the White City: a saga of magic and murder at the fair that changed America" by Erik Larson. ("NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • The true tale of the 1893 World's Fair in Chicago and the cunning serial killer who used the magic and majesty of the fair to lure his victims to their death. “Relentlessly fuses history and entertainment to give this nonfiction book the dramatic effect of a novel .... It doesn't hurt that this truth is stranger than fiction.” —The New York Times Combining meticulous research with nail-biting storytelling, Erik Larson has crafted a narrative with all the wonder of newly discovered history and the thrills of the best fiction. Two men, each handsome and unusually adept at his chosen work, embodied an element of the great dynamic that characterized America's rush toward the twentieth century. The architect was Daniel Hudson Burnham, the fair's brilliant director of works and the builder of many of the country's most important structures, including the Flatiron Building in New York and Union Station in Washington, D.C. The murderer was Henry H. Holmes, a young doctor who, in a malign parody of the White City, built his “World's Fair Hotel” just west of the fairgrounds—a torture palace complete with dissection table, gas chamber, and 3,000-degree crematorium. Burnham overcame tremendous obstacles and tragedies as he organized the talents of Frederick Law Olmsted, Charles McKim, Louis Sullivan, and others to transform swampy Jackson Park into the White City, while Holmes used the attraction of the great fair and his own satanic charms to lure scores of young women to their deaths. What makes the story all the more chilling is that Holmes really lived, walking the grounds of that dream city by the lake. The Devil in the White City draws the reader into the enchantment of the Guilded Age, made all the more appealing by a supporting cast of real-life characters, including Buffalo Bill, Theodore Dreiser, Susan B. Anthony, Thomas Edison, Archduke Francis Ferdinand, and others. Erik Larson's gifts as a storyteller are magnificently displayed in this rich narrative of the master builder, the killer, and the great fair that obsessed them both.") For Educational Purposes Only. The Creators own their music/songs and content.

Episode 25 – A Book and A Beer: George Ade and the Old-Time Saloon

Windy City Historians Podcast

Play Episode Listen Later Oct 28, 2021 56:07

The path to riches is not often associated with journalism, but in the case of George Ade, writing for Chicago newspapers was his road to wealth and fame. Ade, (1866-1944) who was born and raised in Kentland, Indiana, attended Purdue University and then came to Chicago to work as a reporter in the heydays of newspapers. Today George Ade is rarely remembered, with his books out of print, and decades since his musical comedies were performed. But from the 1890s to the early 20th century, he was compared to Mark Twain, a friend of his, and had not just one, but two hit plays on Broadway at the same time. Ade earned so much money from his successful books, plays and syndicated newspaper columns, he built an English Tutor on a 400-acre estate in Indiana, named Hazelden. There Ade threw big parties and was visited there by U.S. Presidents such as Theodore Roosevelt, William Howard Taft, and Calvin Coolidge. In fact, Taft began his Presidential campaign of 1908 from Hazelden. Ade's name lives on through his philanthropy, like the donation of 65 acres, with fellow alum David E. Ross, to Purdue University, for a football stadium in 1924, which is now known as Ross-Ade Stadium. What was true then about Ade's writing is also true now, and that is Ade's stories are hilarious. His final book “The Old Time Saloon” (1931) is laugh-out-loud funny and a recent edition from the University of Chicago Press is annotated by Bill Savage. Bill Savage, Ph.D. is a professor of English at Northwestern University and our guide through not only the work “The Old-Time Saloon: Not Wet - Not Dry, Just History” and this podcast. Dr. Savage paints a picture of the Chicago Ade knew from the high-class Saloons downtown to the more seedy establishments frequented by his friend, Finely Peter Dunne, whose literary bartender, Martin T. Dooley, delighted a nation with his quips. Writers like Ade and Dunne started out as journalists, and along the way captured the rhythms of speech and the vernacular of the working man, and in doing so gave birth to a new type of literature. A style practiced later by authors such as James Farrell, Nelson Algren, Mike Royko and Stuart Dybek. We hope you will enjoy this dive into Chicago's literary and drinking past. Links to Research and Historic Sources: The book, The Old-Time Saloon by George Ade Chicago writer and author George Ade (1866-1944)Ross-Ade Stadium at Purdue UniversityNorthwestern Professor of English Bill Savage, Ph.D.Hazelden (George Ade House) in Brook, IndianaChicago writer and author Peter Finley Dunne (1867-1937)Mr.Dooley on the Immigration Problem (1898) adapted from the writings of Finley Peter Dunne, performed by Alexander Kulcsar.“Who's Your Chinaman?”: The Origins Of An Offensive Piece Of Chicago Political Slang By Monica EngEra of "Hinky Dink" Kenna and "Bathhouse John” Coughlin from the Encyclopedia of Chicago"Mickey Finn: The Chicago Bartender Who Infamously Drugged And Robbed Patrons With Laced Drinks," By Natasha Ishak Published September 24, 2019The Everleigh Club from WikipediaChicago Daley News Building (Riverside Plaza) from WikipediaDouglas Copeland's novel “Generation X: Tales for an Accelerated Culture”Straw Hat Ettiquette from the Vintage Dancer websiteLiz Garibay's website: History on Tap"The Dry Season" by Steve Rhodes, published June 22, 2007 in Chicago MagazineThe book, The World Is Always Coming to an End: Pulling Together and Apart in a Chicago Neighborhood (Chicago Visions and Revisions) by Carlo Rotella (2019)Jimmy's Woodlawn Tap from the Chicago Bar Project websiteAmerican novelist and journalist, Theodore Dreiser (1871-1945) in WikipediaWriter, poet, and author, Carl Sandburg (1878-1967)The book Native Son by Richard Wright (1908-1960)Studs Lonigan: A Trilogy by James T. Farrell (1904-1979)American novelist and short story writer Sherwood Anderson (1876-1941) in WikipediaAmerican writer Nelson Algren (1909-1981) in WikipediaChicago: City on the ...

american university history chicago english research indiana broadway beer presidential savage writers tap presidents northwestern university mark twain theodore roosevelt purdue university farrell davide encyclopedia ade dunne dooley saloon chicago press taft revisions old time richard wright calvin coolidge native son dry seasons william howard taft carl sandburg saloons sherwood anderson hazelden nelson algren theodore dreiser martin t mike royko ross ade stadium stuart dybek bill savage james farrell george ade carlo rotella

The Anatomy of Desire by L.R. Dorn

The Big Book Club Podcast from Arlington Public Library

Play Episode Listen Later Oct 1, 2021 39:22

This is the first episode of our third season, and “The Anatomy of Desire” is the perfect book to introduce our fall reading theme and schedule. In season two we tackled a variety of western classics and foundational texts. With this book we're beginning to explore the work built on those foundations. Published in May, 2021, “The Anatomy of Desire” is a modern reimagining of Theodore Dreiser's classic crime drama, “An American Tragedy,” which we read earlier this year. Reminder: this is a spoiler-filled podcast. So if you're not into that kind of thing, read the book first and come back later. Episode Links "Anatomy of Desire" by L.R. Dorn Reading Pete – ”A Lush and Seething Hell” by John Hornor Jacobs Jennie - “Hani and Ishu's Guide to Fake Dating" by Adiba Jaigirdar and “To Sir, with Love” by Lauren Layne Megan – “Empire of Pain: the Secret History of the Sackler Dynasty” by Patrick Radden Keefe and “Bombshell” by Sarah MacLean Tell us what YOU think about this book, or anything else you're reading, in our GoodReads or Facebook groups, or talk to us on twitter using the #BigBookPodcast hashtag. If you'd like to make a suggestion for future reading send us your recommendations on the Big Book Club Podcast page on the Arlington Public Library website. Upcoming Books: "The Ballad of Black Tom" by Victor LaValle and "The Horror at Red Hook" by H.P. Lovecraft "The Balled of Black Tom" has been described as "a novella of sorcery and skullduggery in Jazz Age New York." From the publisher: People move to New York looking for magic and nothing will convince them it isn't there. Charles Thomas Tester hustles to put food on the table, keep the roof over his father's head, from Harlem to Flushing Meadows to Red Hook. He knows what magic a suit can cast, the invisibility a guitar case can provide, and the curse written on his skin that attracts the eye of wealthy white folks and their cops. But when he delivers an occult tome to a reclusive sorceress in the heart of Queens, Tom opens a door to a deeper realm of magic, and earns the attention of things best left sleeping.A storm that might swallow the world is building in Brooklyn. Will Black Tom live to see it break?

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Theodore Dreiser. The writer of American dreams. Elementary listening

Learn English

Play Episode Listen Later Sep 9, 2021 2:04

Dreiser was born in Indiana, America. His parents were of German origin. They were very poor. He spent his childhood in poverty. He went to university but didn't take a degree. In 1892 he started to work as a reporter for Chicago newspapers. His first novel Sister Carrie is about a young woman who doesn't want to live in the countryside. She goes to the city and becomes a famous actress. The novel makes people think about morality and lifestyle. It was called the greatest of all American urbal novels. In his other novels he shows different situations where young people want to have a lot of money. Some of such people become criminals. People killed for money, married for money and it was called the American kind of crime. Dreiser also was a poet. He wrote about poverty and ambition. He understood the social injustice of the working class and joined the Communist party USA in 1945. His business novels make people think about life and goals in life. There is a Dreiser college in New York. Also, you can see his name in a Chicago Literary Hall of Fame. He is one of the greatest unique American writers, who showed some important aspects of social life.

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Change by Theodore Dreiser

Archer Dentin

Play Episode Listen Later Aug 20, 2021 7:43

Change is an essay in Dreiser's collection, Hey, Rub-a-Dub-Dub: A Book of the Mystery and Wonder and Terror of Life (1920). "I often think how foolishly humanity opposes change at times and how steadily and uninterruptedly it flows in, altering the face of the world." --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/hmphaudiobooks/support

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The Wee Free Men by Terry Pratchett

The Big Book Club Podcast from Arlington Public Library

Play Episode Listen Later Aug 16, 2021 32:15

This week on the podcast we're talking about the “The Wee Free Men,” a 2003 fantasy novel that takes places in Terry Pratchett's Discworld universe. "The Wee Free Men” is the first Discworld book that features Tiffany Aching, and the first truly YA book in the series. Reminder: this is a spoiler-filled podcast. So if you're not into that kind of thing, read the book first and come back later. Episode Links “The Wee Free Men,”by Terry Pratchet Soccer Scottish Hooligans Weekly from Saturday Night Live Reading Pete – “House/Hausu" Jennie - "Born Into This" by Adam Thompson Megan – "The Bear and the Nightingale" by Katherine Arden Tell us what YOU think about this book, or anything else you're reading, in our GoodReads or Facebook groups, or talk to us on twitter using the #BigBookPodcast hashtag. If you'd like to make a suggestion for future reading send us your recommendations on the Big Book Club Podcast page on the Arlington Public Library website. Upcoming Book: "Anatomy of Desire" by L.R. Dorn Claire Griffith has it all, a thriving career, a gorgeous boyfriend, glamorous friends. She always knew she was destined for more than the life her conservative parents preached to her. Arriving in Los Angeles flat broke, she has risen to become a popular fitness coach and social media influencer. Having rebranded herself as Cleo Ray, she stands at the threshold of realizing her biggest dreams. One summer day, Cleo and a woman named Beck Alden set off in a canoe on a serene mountain lake. An hour later, Beck is found dead in the water and Cleo is missing. Authorities suspect foul play, and news of Cleo's involvement goes viral. Who was Beck? An infatuated follower? Were she and Cleo friends or lovers? Was Beck's death an accident . . . or murder? Told in the form of an immersive investigative docuseries, L. R. Dorn's brilliant reimagining of Theodore Dreiser's classic crime drama, "An American Tragedy," captures the urgency and poignance of the original and rekindles it as a very contemporary and utterly mesmerizing page-turner.

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An American Tragedy, pt.3, by Theodore Dreiser

The Big Book Club Podcast from Arlington Public Library

Play Episode Listen Later Jul 12, 2021 26:39

On the Facebook group, reader Kristen said, “One sign of a good book to me is how much I remember and still think about months later, and this [An American Tragedy] was one of those books.” So we took a deep dive into that question on this week's episode.... Episode Links “An American Tragedy,” by Theodore Dreiser Reading Pete - “Blindsight” by Peter Watts Jennie - “Winter's Orbit” by Everina Maxwell Megan – “The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue” by V.E. Schwab and “Fat Chance, Charlie Vega” by Chrystal Maldonado Tell us what YOU think about this book, or anything else you're reading, in our GoodReads or Facebook groups, or talk to us on twitter using the #BigBookPodcast hashtag. If you'd like to make a suggestion for future reading send us your recommendations on the Big Book Club Podcast page on the Arlington Public Library website. Upcoming Summer Books: Our July 19 book will be “The Big Sleep,” by Raymond Chandler, followed by Terry Pratchet's “The Wee Free Men” for August 2.

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An American Tragedy, pt.2, by Theodore Dreiser

The Big Book Club Podcast from Arlington Public Library

Play Episode Listen Later Jun 14, 2021 31:55

How to Try to Get Away with Murder This episode comes with a content warning! This section of “An American Tragedy” (and our podcast discussion) deals with unprotected sex and the search for abortion after unplanned pregnancy in the 1920s. There is also discussion of a pre-planned murder. So if that isn't something that would be healthy for you to listen to, I suggest skipping this episode – and probably this book. Episode Links “An American Tragedy,” by Theodore Dreiser Reading Pete - DVDs “Logan” and “Blackcoat's Daughter” Jennie - “She Who Became the Sun” by Shelley Parker-Chan Megan – “The wicked king: Folk of the Air Series, Book 2” by Holly Black and “Grit: The Power of Passion and Perseverance” by Angela Duckworth Tell us what YOU think about this book, or anything else you're reading, in our GoodReads or Facebook groups, or talk to us on twitter using the #BigBookPodcast hashtag. If you'd like to make a suggestion for future reading send us your recommendations on the Big Book Club Podcast page on the Arlington Public Library website. Upcoming Summer Books: Our July 19 book will be “The Big Sleep,” by Raymond Chandler, followed by Terry Pratchet's “The Wee Free Men” for August 2.

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An American Tragedy, pt.1, by Theodore Dreiser

The Big Book Club Podcast from Arlington Public Library

Play Episode Listen Later May 31, 2021 35:16

This week on the podcast we're reading part 1 of “An American Tragedy,” by Theodore Dreiser. Originally published in 1925, Dreiser based his novel on a notorious murder of a young woman named Grace Brown, and the subsequent trial of her boyfriend. The novel has just been republished in a new edition. The next two episodes will cover parts two and three. Episode Links “An American Tragedy,” by Theodore Dreiser Reading Pete - "Cuyahoga” by Pete Beatty Jennie - “One of Us is Next" by Karen M. McManus, the sequel to One of Us Is Lying Megan – “Pale Rider: The Spanish Flu of 1918 and How It Changed the World” by Laura Spinney and “Eat a Peach: A Memoir” by David Chang Tell us what YOU think about this book, or anything else you're reading, in our GoodReads or Facebook groups, or talk to us on twitter using the #BigBookPodcast hashtag. If you'd like to make a suggestion for future reading send us your recommendations on the Big Book Club Podcast page on the Arlington Public Library website. Upcoming Summer Books: Our July 19 book will be “The Big Sleep,” by Raymond Chandler, followed by Terry Pratchet's “The Wee Free Men” for August 2.

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XZRS: Morrow Wilson - Why The 60's Still Fascinate Us

The Big Book Club Podcast from Arlington Public Library

Play Episode Listen Later May 9, 2021 49:45

Why The 60's Still Fascinate Us - A direct descendent of a signer of both the Declaration of Independence and the United States Constitution, Morrow Wilson graduated from The Putney School and from Columbia College, where he studied English and American literature with, among others, Mark Van Doren and Lionel Trilling. Though admitted to Columbia's Graduate School of English, he chose not to pursue an academic career.His father was a writer - a protege of Theodore Dreiser, author of some three dozen books as well as articles in every major American magazine, and a reporter for The Arkansas Gazette, The St. Louis Post-Dispatch and The New York Times. Doris Grumbach devoted her entire column in The New Republic to Morrow Wilson's first novel, M.I.M. Eliot Fremont-Smith (book critic of The Village Voice, The New York Times and, before that, Editor-in-Chief of Little-Brown) wrote about another, David Sunshine, that it is "delightful and full of truth." And literary agent Virginia Barber described his work this way: "a wonderful writing style" with "tremendous drive and energy."A professional playwright, theatrical producer and award-winning New York actor, as well, Morrow Wilson has written novels, plays, columns, editorials, reviews, short stories and articles. He has been an anthology, encyclopedia, and trade book editor, a publishing executive and twice a small press CEO, has appeared on every New York City broadcast television channel, nationally on Inside Edition, Entertainment Tonight and Access Hollywood, on many radio talk shows, and has been cast in more than 100 New York City stage productions, numerous commercials and six New York soap operas.He has been written up in The New York Times, The New Republic, Crain's New York Business, MORE Magazine, Show Business, The Star, The National Enquirer, The Globe, Columbia College Today and Who's Who in America. He is a member in good standing of the Authors League of America, the Dramatists Guild and the Columbia College Resource Council for the Arts, a life member of The Actors' Fund of America, this country's oldest theatrical charity (recipient of its Encore Award), and a board member of The Players, this country's oldest theatrical and literary social club.For Your Listening Pleasure for these Lockdown / Stay-At-Home COVID and Variants Times - For all the radio shows available on The 'X' Zone Broadcast Network visit - https://www.spreaker.com/user/xzoneradiotv.Our radio shows archives and programming include: A Different Perspective with Kevin Randle; Alien Cosmic Expo Lecture Series; Alien Worlds Radio Show; America's Soul Doctor with Ken Unger; Back in Control Radio Show with Dr. David Hanscom, MD; Connecting with Coincidence with Dr. Bernard Beitman, MD; Dick Tracy; Dimension X; Exploring Tomorrow Radio Show; Flash Gordon; Imagine More Success Radio Show with Syndee Hendricks and Thomas Hydes; Jet Jungle Radio Show; Journey Into Space; Know the Name with Sharon Lynn Wyeth; Lux Radio Theatre - Classic Old Time Radio; Mission Evolution with Gwilda Wiyaka; Paranormal StakeOut with Larry Lawson; Ray Bradbury - Tales Of The Bizarre; Sci Fi Radio Show; Seek Reality with Roberta Grimes; Space Patrol; Stairway to Heaven with Gwilda Wiyaka; The 'X' Zone Radio Show with Rob McConnell; Two Good To Be True with Justina Marsh and Peter Marsh; and many other!That's The ‘X' Zone Broadcast Network Shows and Archives - https://www.spreaker.com/user/xzoneradiotv

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And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie

Play Episode Listen Later May 3, 2021 32:43

Neither Pete or Megan have actually read any of Agatha Christie's murder mysteries, so we took a deep dive into her 1939 best selling, endlessly genre-shaping, "And Then There Were None." We weren't surprised by both the overt and casual racism and sexism in the book, but we were surprised to discover that Christie's psychological thriller writing feels as adept today as it did when the book was published. Links "And Then There Were None" by Agatha Christie For our next book, we're going back to our roots and reading a literal big book that was recommended by listener Kim. “An American Tragedy,” by Theodore Dreiser, over 3 episodes spaced 3 weeks apart – May 24, June 14 and July 5. Our July 19 book will be “The Big Sleep,” by Raymond Chandler, followed by Terry Pratchet's “The Wee Free Men” for August 2. If you would like to make a suggestion for future reading you can send your recommendations to us on the library website. Also reading: Pete - “The king of confidence: a tale of utopian dreamers, frontier schemers, true believers, false prophets, and the murder of an American monarch” by Miles Harvey Jennie - “The Betel Nut Tree Mystery” by Ovidia Yu Megan – “When No One Is Watching” by Allysa Cole; “Caste: The Origins of Our Discontents” by Isabel Wilkerson and “A Deadly Education” by Naomi Novik

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A Place in the Sun (1951)

Extra Milestone

Play Episode Listen Later Apr 30, 2021 50:49

Our film anniversary this month belongs to the romantic drama Charlie Chaplin once called “the greatest movie ever made about America.” That’s right, we’re diving into A Place in the Sun, starring Montgomery Clift, Elizabeth Taylor, and Shelley Winters, with supporting turns from Anne Revere and Raymond Burr. Directed by George Stevens and written by Harry Brown and Michael Wilson, this awards-heavy favorite among classic film lovers celebrates 70 years since premiering at the Cannes Film Festival in 1951, and it was the second film adaptation of the 1925 novel An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser, which was also a place of the same name. MUSIC IN THIS EPISODE: The opening theme of A Place in the Sun, composed by Franz Waxman and Daniele Amfitheatrof. LINKS Follow us on Twitter: Jon Negroni, Julia Teti Check out our Cinemaholics Merch! Leave us a voicemail using The “Swell” App. We post new prompts every week or so. Check out our Patreon to support Cinemaholics! Email your feedback to cinemaholicspodcast [at] gmail.com. Connect with Cinemaholics on Facebook and Twitter. Support our show on Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/cinemaholics See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

america film sun directed charlie chaplin cannes film festival elizabeth taylor classic films michael wilson american tragedy montgomery clift raymond burr shelley winters george stevens harry brown place in the sun 1951 franz waxman theodore dreiser cinemaholics swell app

A Place in the Sun (1951)

Cinemaholics

Play Episode Listen Later Apr 30, 2021 50:49

Our film anniversary this month belongs to the romantic drama Charlie Chaplin once called “the greatest movie ever made about America.” That’s right, we’re diving into A Place in the Sun, starring Montgomery Clift, Elizabeth Taylor, and Shelley Winters, with supporting turns from Anne Revere and Raymond Burr. Directed by George Stevens and written by Harry Brown and Michael Wilson, this awards-heavy favorite among classic film lovers celebrates 70 years since premiering at the Cannes Film Festival in 1951, and it was the second film adaptation of the 1925 novel An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser, which was also a place of the same name. MUSIC IN THIS EPISODE: The opening theme of A Place in the Sun, composed by Franz Waxman and Daniele Amfitheatrof. LINKS Follow us on Twitter: Jon Negroni, Julia Teti Check out our Cinemaholics Merch! Leave us a voicemail using The “Swell” App. We post new prompts every week or so. Check out our Patreon to support Cinemaholics! Email your feedback to cinemaholicspodcast [at] gmail.com. Connect with Cinemaholics on Facebook and Twitter. Support our show on Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/cinemaholics See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

america film sun directed charlie chaplin cannes film festival elizabeth taylor classic films michael wilson american tragedy montgomery clift raymond burr shelley winters george stevens harry brown place in the sun 1951 franz waxman theodore dreiser cinemaholics swell app

Old Timey Crimey #106: Grace Brown & Chester Gillette - "Sparky Did Nothing Wrong"

Old Timey Crimey

Play Episode Listen Later Mar 26, 2021 105:11

A tale as old as time, but not in a good way. For more old timey crimey content, check out the Patreon and see what extras you can get for a few bucks a months! Or check out our Amazon Wishlist to buy us a book--making the episode topic YOUR CHOICE! Don't forget to follow the show FB, Insta, or Twitter. WE HAVE MERCH! https://www.redbubble.com/people/oldtimeycrimey/shop Other Shows: Short Story, Short Podcast: https://open.spotify.com/show/3q2moJE65wLBf0zFjqhMhu?si=3zbTwhkIQnOYVqbd_TmZYQ Detectives by the Decade: https://linktr.ee/detectivesbythedecade Huge thanks to Podcorn for sponsoring this episode. Explore sponsorship opportunities and start monetizing your podcast by signing up here: https://podcorn.com/podcasters/ Huge thanks to Best Fiends for sponsoring this episode. Sources: Chuck D’Imperio. NYupstate.com. https://www.newyorkupstate.com/adirondacks/2016/04/grace_brown_murder_big_moose_inn_adirondacks_ny_chester_gillette.html https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Theodore_Dreiser, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cortland,_New_York https://www.adirondack.net/history/grace-brown/ Kate Welshofer. https://www.katewelshofer.com/love-relationships/old-murder-modern-love-lessons-learned-from-the-original-cool-girl/ Jessica Ryen Doyle. Utica Observer-Dispatch. https://www.uticaod.com/article/20080113/news/301139940 Syracuse Herald. New York Tribune via LOC. NY Sun, Press and Sun-Bulletin, Buffalo Enquirer, Brooklyn Citizen via Newspapers.com https://www.newspapers.com/image/164182508/?terms=%22grace%20brown%22&match=1 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Murder_of_Grace_Brown https://heathermonroe.medium.com/the-tragic-death-of-grace-brown-da714f6c2a30 https://murderpedia.org/male.G/g/gillette-chester.htm https://www.adirondackexperience.com/blog/2014/10/adirondack-ghost-story https://mysteriousuniverse.org/2021/03/a-murder-a-haunting-and-the-mysterious-death-of-grace-brown/ Music: Evil Plan by Kevin MacLeod Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/3725-evil-plan License: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/ Breaktime by Kevin MacLeod Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/3457-breaktime License: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/

prevaricate

Merriam-Webster's Word of the Day

Play Episode Listen Later Mar 19, 2021 1:31

Merriam-Webster's Word of the Day for March 19, 2021 is: prevaricate • prih-VAIR-uh-kayt • verb : to deviate from the truth : equivocate Examples: "It amused him to hear the ethical and emotional platitudes of lawyers, to see how readily they would lie, steal, prevaricate, misrepresent in almost any cause and for any purpose." — Theodore Dreiser, The Financier, 1912 "One official reflected to me that leaders are frequently moved to action only when they meet one another in person. Phone calls are simply not the same. It’s too easy to hang up, prevaricate, and turn back to the domestic problems." — Thomas Wright, The Atlantic, 4 Mar. 2020 Did you know? Prevaricate and its synonyms lie and equivocate all refer to playing fast and loose with the truth. Lie is the bluntest of the three. When you accuse someone of lying, you are saying that person was intentionally dishonest, no bones about it. Prevaricate is less accusatory and softens the bluntness of lie, usually implying that someone is evading the truth rather than purposely making false statements. Equivocate is similar to prevaricate, but it generally implies that someone is deliberately using words that have more than one meaning as a way to conceal the truth.

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B. J. Harrison Reads The Lost Phoebe

Luisterrijk luisterboeken

Play Episode Listen Later Feb 22, 2021 3:00

"The Lost Phoebe" is a short story by Theodore Dreiser. Henry is so devastated by the death of his wife that cannot find peace, he finds himself constantly searching for her...Uitgegeven door SAGA EgmontSpreker(s): B. J. Harrison

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The Color of a Great City, by Theodore Dreiser, Part 1

Boring Books for Bedtime

Play Episode Listen Later Feb 22, 2021 50:17

Tonight, let’s journey back to New York City in the early 1900s with one of America’s great writers and his dreamy portrait of the city that never sleeps. Fingers crossed you will! Subscribe here: www.linktre.ee/boringbookspod Support here: Patreon: www.patreon.com/boringbookspod Buy Me A Coffee: www.buymeacoffee.com/d5kcMsW Read "The Color of a Great City" at Project Gutenberg: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/61043 Music: “Watching Whales on the Moon” by Lee Rosevere, licensed under CC BY-NC https://leerosevere.bandcamp.com If you'd like to suggest a copyright-free reading for soft-spoken relaxation to help you overcome insomnia, anxiety and other sleep issues, connect on our website, boringbookspod.com.

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“The Lost Phoebe” by Theodore Dreiser

Fast Asleep

Play Episode Listen Later Nov 5, 2020 40:36

***** With his “naturalist” style, Dreiser writes tenderly of decades-long love. --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app

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Changing Human Nature

The Kundalini Consortium Podcast

Play Episode Listen Later Oct 24, 2020 12:01 Transcription Available

The reason human nature varies so greatly among individuals is because nature is subordinate to the individual's current state of consciousness. The higher the state of consciousness of the individual, the nobler his nature.

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AS15: Alice Quinn and Jennie Gerhardt

Scene by Scene with Josh & Dean

Play Episode Listen Later Jul 14, 2019 42:44

American Splendor scene #15 (32:27 to 37:10) — The short weekend begins with longing… Harvey is picking up donuts and day-old bread at the bakery when he runs into Alice Quinn, a woman he briefly knew in college. They catch up on each other’s lives and talk about Theodore Dreiser’s novel Jennie Gerhardt. Harvey leaves their encounter feeling more alone than ever before — “life seems so sweet, and so sad…” Comics about ordinary life vis-a-vis the “TV show about nothing” — were the creators of Seinfeld inspired by American Splendor? An extended comparison of the original comics story to the filmed scene. (Plus a callback to “average is dumb”!) How to talk to the opposite sex. A tribute to the real Harvey Pekar’s voiceover “acting.” Fancy donuts and gourmet jellybeans. Shout-outs to Jerry Seinfeld, Larry David, Sue Cavey, Maggie Moore, The Deer Hunter, and The Quitter. --- This episode is sponsored by · The Colin and Samir Podcast: The Colin and Samir Podcast hosted by LA - based friends and filmmakers Colin and Samir takes a look into what it’s like to make creativity your career. https://open.spotify.com/show/5QaSbbv2eD4SFrlFR6IyY7?si=Dj3roVoJTZmOime94xhjng --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/scenebyscene/message Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/scenebyscene/support

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Ep 195: Jennifer Donnelly

First Draft with Sarah Enni

Play Episode Listen Later Jun 11, 2019 52:22

First Draft Episode #195: Jennifer Donnelly Jennifer Donnelly, New York Times bestselling author of A Northern Light, Revolution, These Shallow Graves, and The Tea Rose series (incl. The Tea Rose; The Winter Rose; The Wild Rose) and Waterfire Saga series (incl. Deep Blue; Rogue Wave; Dark Tide; Sea Spell), Beauty and the Beast: Lost in a Book, among others, who is back with the New York Times bestselling Stepsister. Jennifer talks about being raised on bedtime stories about life under the Hitler regime; how to deep-dive into writing a historical novel; and the joy of being obsessed. Links and Topics Mentioned In This Episode Learn more about The First Draft Listener Club The New York Teen Author Carnival When Jennifer visited Portobello Road in East London, she felt like she was stepping back into the London of Charles Dickens (author of Great Expectations and A Tale of Two Cities), artist William Hogarth, Jack the Ripper (learn more with The Complete History of Jack the Ripper by Phillip Sugden), The Labour Movement, the London Dock Worker Strike Simon Lipskar of Writer’s House was interested in Jennifer’s first crack at writing a novel, which was 1,100 words(!) Sally Kim, VP and Editor in Chief at Putnam, was then at St. Martin’s, when she purchased Jennifer’s first book Steven Malk at Writer’s House became Jennifer’s agent to sell A Northern Light and subsequent books Jennifer’s mom bought her a copy of An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser, and that sparked the obsession that led to A Northern Light. (Non-fiction accounts of the murder of Grace Brown include Adirondack Tragedy: The Gillette Murder Case of 1906, written by Joseph W. Brownell and Patricia Enos; and Murder in the Adirondacks: An American Tragedy Revisited, by Craig Brandon.) The murder case of Laci Peterson, documented in true crime novel A Deadly Game: The Untold Story of the Scott Peterson Investigation by Catherine Crier Jennifer was stopped short by a New York Times article about the heart of Louis Charles, Dauphin of France, the imprisoned son of the king of France who was toppled by the French Revolution. The story was likely either “Genetics Offers Denouement To Mystery of Prince's Death,” by Suzanne Daley, or “MEANWHILE : Learning from a heart stilled by revolution,” by Catherine Field. Jennifer was inspired by “Savage Beauty,” the Met’s retrospective of fashion designer Alexander McQueen’s work Jennifer’s short story in Fatal Throne: The Wives of Henry VIII Tell All led her to explore the themes of beauty and how we reinforce those standards on young women in Stepsister I blow up Maurene Goo’s spot (author of I Believe in a Thing Called Love, The Way You Make Me Feel, and her newest, Somewhere Only We Know) getting obsessed with the Supernatural TV show (listen to Maurene’s First Draft episodes here, here, and here) I’m obsessed with The Dyatlov Pass Incident, which was covered in Dead Mountain: The Untold True Story of the Dyatlov Pass Incident by Donnie Eichar Subscribe To First Draft with Sarah Enni Every Tuesday, I speak to storytellers like Veronica Roth, author of Divergent; Michael Dante DiMartino, co-creator of Avatar: The Last Airbender; John August, screenwriter of Big Fish, Charlie’s Angels, and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory; or Rhett Miller, musician and frontman for The Old 97s. Together, we take deep dives on their careers and creative works. Don’t miss an episode! Subscribe in Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Stitcher, or wherever you get your podcasts. It’s free! Rate, Review, and Recommend How do you like the show? Please take a moment to rate and review First Draft with Sarah Enni in Apple Podcasts, Google Play, or wherever you listen to podcasts. Your honest and positive review helps others discover the show -- so thank you! Is there someone you think would love this podcast as much as you do? Please share this episode on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, or via carrier pigeon (maybe try a text or e-mail, come to think of it). Just click the Share button at the bottom of this post! Thanks again!

The story of an author & his apprentice: JACK AND NORMAN

BGE Radio

Play Episode Listen Later Oct 5, 2018 14:00

This is the story of an author and his apprentice. It is the story of literary influence and tragedy. It is also the story of incarceration in America. Norman Mailer was writing The Executioner’s Song, his novel about condemned killer Gary Gilmore, when he struck up a correspondence with Jack Henry Abbott, Federal Prisoner 87098-132. Over time, Abbott convinced the famous author that he was a talented writer who deserved another chance at freedom. With letters of support from Mailer and other literary elites of the day, Abbott was released on parole in 1981. About Dr. Jerome Loving: Dr. Jerome Loving is an American literary critic and academic. He is a professor of American Literature and Culture at Texas A&M University at College Station, and the author of several books about Walt Whitman, Theodore Dreiser, Mark Twain and Emily Dickinson. He served as a Fulbright Professor in Leningrad in 1978 and Paris in 1989-90. His biography of Walt Whitman was a finalist for the Los Angeles Book Prize in 2000. He was awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship for his scholarly contributions to American Literature in 2002. www.buildgrowandenjoy.com

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Ep. 6: An American Tragedy

Reading with Rory

Play Episode Listen Later Oct 2, 2018 44:23

Erin, Lis, and Sara explore the "ripped from the headlines" 1925 novel by Theodore Dreiser. Erin explains why she wanted to throw An American Tragedy across the train and we debate the appeal of true crime novels.

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The Wyoming Valley American Tragedy

True Crime Historian

Play Episode Listen Later Sep 10, 2018 73:24

Pregnant Church Worker Found Dead In Harvey’s Lake If the tropes in Episode 275 sound a bit like Episode 96, “The Body In Big Moose Lake,” the familiarity was not lost on the people of the day, either. The 1906 murder of Grace Brown in Big Moose Lake inspired novelist Theodore Dreiser to write “An American Tragedy,” which became an instant classic when it was published in 1925. The story you are about to hear struck such a familiar chord that the press made many comparisons and headlines described the murder of Freda McKechnie and the trial of Bobby Edwards in the same terms. Theodore Dreiser was called upon by the New York Post to cover the trial, and he makes a brief appearance in our story when he receives an admonition from the bench. *** Culled from the historic pages of the Wilkes-Barre Record, Wilkes-Barre Times Leader, the Wilkes-Barre Evening News and other newspapers of the era. *** A creation Of Pulpular Media Support your favorite podcaster at www.patreon.com/truecrimehistorian. Just a dollar a month reserves your bunk at the safe house and access to exclusive content and whatever personal services you require. ZipRecruiter. The smartest way to hire. *** Opening theme by Nico Vitesse. Some music and sound effects licensed from podcastmusic.com. Closing theme by Dave Sams and Rachel Schott, engineered by David Hisch at Third Street Music. Media management by Sean R. Jones Production assistance by Emily Simer Braun Richard O Jones, Executive Producer

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Episode 253: Theodore Dreiser, An American Tragedy (9)

Play Episode Listen Later Sep 6, 2018 29:45

Enjoy the finale of my review of "An American Tragedy" by Theodore Dreiser.

Episode 252: Theodore Dreiser, An American Tragedy (8)

Play Episode Listen Later Sep 2, 2018 21:57

In part 8 of my review of "An American Tragedy" by Theodore Dreiser we witness a trial of the ages.

Episode 251: Theodore Dreiser, An American Tragedy (7)

Play Episode Listen Later Aug 30, 2018 27:48

More of Theodore Dreiser's "An American Tragedy".

Episode 250: Theodore Dreiser: An American Tragedy (6)

Play Episode Listen Later Aug 26, 2018 30:49

Part six of my review of "An American Tragedy" by Theodore Dresier.

Episode 249: Theodore Dreiser: An American Tragedy (5)

Play Episode Listen Later Aug 21, 2018 45:39

Episode 248: Theodore Dreiser, An American Tragedy (4)

Play Episode Listen Later Aug 18, 2018 43:37

Things start to get complicated for Clyde and his love life in part four of my review of "An American Tragedy" by Theodore Dresier.

Episode 247: Theodore Dreiser: An American Tragedy (3)

Play Episode Listen Later Aug 15, 2018 32:12

Part 3 of my review of "An American Tragedy" by Theodore Dreiser. This section focuses on how Clyde Griffiths finds a new job as a supervisor in a collar factory.

Episode 246: Theodore Dreiser: An American Tragedy (2)

Play Episode Listen Later Aug 10, 2018 34:25

Part 2 of my review of Theodore Dresier's "An American Tragedy".

Episode 245: Theodore Dreiser: An American Tragedy (1)

progressive american tragedy theodore dreiser

Play Episode Listen Later Aug 7, 2018 33:44

Part 1 of a 9 part series on Theodore Dresier's excellent book "An American Tragedy". In this part we meet Clyde Griffiths and his family, think about the urban missionary movement of the Progressive era and ponder the impact of that lifestyle on young people.

Episode 20 - A. Merritt's "Burn Witch, Burn!" with special guest Stephen Newton

Appendix N Book Club

Play Episode Listen Later Jan 8, 2018 52:39

Abraham Grace Merritt (better known by his byline A. Merritt) has the odd distinction of being perhaps second only to Edgar Rice Burroughs in popularity as a writer of fantastic fiction during the first half of the 20th century, only to be largely forgotten today. Perhaps this is because Merritt’s relatively small body of work didn’t feature recurring iconic heroes like John Carter of Mars or Conan of Cimmeria, or it may be down to his prose style’s reputation for being more baroque and densely descriptive than is the norm nowadays. Merritt came from a poor Quaker family, and financial difficulties forced his withdrawal from legal studies at the University of Pennsylvania. He landed a job at the age of 19 in 1903 as a reporter at The Philadelphia Inquirer, remaining a journalist for the rest of his life. Early in his career Merritt experienced or witnessed something (political corruption? heinous violence? eldritch horrors?) of which he never spoke again. Merritt was forced to lay low for a year in Mexico and Central America, where he visited many pre-Columbian sites and befriended the indigenous peoples. Merritt’s Latin American exile sparked in him a lifelong love of travel to exotic locales and a keen interest in the rituals and legends associated with those places. This anthropological eye would inform all of Merritt’s fiction, from his first published story “Through the Dragon Glass” (1917) to his final uncompleted novella “The Fox Woman” (first published in 1946). Merritt’s powers of imagination and description would inspire generations of writers of fantastic fiction, not least the “Big Three” of Weird Tales, H.P. Lovecraft, Clark Ashton Smith, and Robert E. Howard. Unlike many of the Appendix N authors, Merritt did not need to survive on his fiction work since he was one of the best-paid journalists of his time--in 1912 he was tapped to be the assistant editor of The American Weekly and was earning $25,000 a year by 1919 (over $365,000 in 2017 dollars). Merritt served as the editor-in-chief of The American Weekly from 1937 until his death in 1943, by which time he was earning $100,000 a year (over $1.4 million in 2017 dollars). Merritt’s editorial responsibilities and his tendency to re-visit and rework his stories meant that he only completed 8 novels and 7 short stories in his lifetime. But regardless of whether Merritt’s commitment to The American Weekly limited his fantastic fiction output, his time there was well-spent as it also allowed him to champion and hire Virgil Finlay and Hannes Bok, two up-and-coming artists who would become among the greatest of the pulp era. Both Finlay and Bok would go on to illustrate many of Merritt’s stories and Bok was given permission to complete and publish two unfinished Merritt novellas, The Fox Woman and the Blue Pagoda (New Collectors Group, 1946) and The Black Wheel (New Collectors Group, 1947). Merritt’s second to last novel, Burn, Witch, Burn! was originally serialized in 6 parts in Argosy Weekly magazine in the fall of 1932 and compiled in hardcover the following year by Liveright, Inc. It’s a mark of Merritt’s literary respectability at the time that he shared the same publisher as Theodore Dreiser, William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway, Sigmund Freud, and E.E. Cummings among others.

Sister Carrie. The opera of the novel.

Naxos Classical Spotlight

Play Episode Listen Later Sep 15, 2017 20:01

Sister Carrie, an opera by American composer Robert Aldridge, was first performed in 2012. Theodore Dreiser’s Sister Carrie, the novel on which the opera was based, was written in 1900. It was one of the first American novels about social status which, for women around the turn of the 20th century, depended almost entirely on men. Marriage and motherhood were for the majority the only life options. For many today, such observations still carry varying degrees of resonance. Aldridge’s powerful music charges up the themes of social standing and the lure of money; a small-town girl’s tortuous path to fame and her lover’s abject descent into despair. Raymond Bisha introduces the work.

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139: Edith Wharton: "The House of Mirth"

Play Episode Listen Later Jun 18, 2017 41:19

This week on StoryWeb: Edith Wharton’s novel The House of Mirth. I want to close out my multi-week focus on the Gilded Age with a consideration of Edith Wharton’s novel The House of Mirth. Where Jacob Riis, Alfred Stieglitz, Stephen Crane, and Theodore Dreiser look at the grimier side of this famed period in New York City history, at the underbelly that the working class and poor, the immigrants, and the homeless faced as they made their way through daily life, Edith Wharton focuses her attention on the world she knew best: that of the privileged, moneyed class. It seems odd in a way to say I “love” The House of Mirth. After all, the main character, Lily Bart, endures such a difficult downward spiral amid the harsh, judgmental upper-class echelons of New York City. The young, flirtatious, life-loving, aptly named Lily doesn’t stand a chance against high Manhattan society, whether it is those with old money, such as her Aunt Peniston, or those with new money, such as the Trenors and Dorsets. Lily’s story – as hard as it is to witness – is told fully, drawn exquisitely against the backdrop of Fifth Avenue mansions. Written in 1905 – first as a serialized series in Scribner’s Magazine and then published as a book – The House of Mirth brings to life a New York that most of Wharton’s readers would not have had the privilege to know. But it is a world Edith Wharton knew intimately. Born Edith Newbold Jones, she came from the uber-rich family that gave rise to the saying “keeping up with the Joneses.” Wharton spent her whole life in that rarified, upper-crust elite. She knew firsthand its luxuries and privileges. She also saw the ways in which it was stultifying, demanding strict adherence to a rigid set of mores and ostracizing anyone who dared to go against those mores. Lily Bart is an interesting case in point. A poor relation, orphaned and without an income, Lily is forced to rely on her aunt, Mrs. Julia Peniston, one of the so-called Knickerbockers who hailed from old New York money. Thus, Lily is a kind of stepchild, a pampered beggar at the very altar of wealth. She has been raised in this world, but she doesn’t have a firm foothold in it, much less a steady stand in it. In her late twenties, the beautiful Lily is beginning to lose her bloom, and the pressure is on her to marry. But Lily can’t seem to make a match. She is still full of youth, life, energy – and she is also frivolous and flirtatious, too much for her own good according to the moneyed society in which she lives. Through a scandal involving money and sexual harassment, Lily falls precipitously from the tenuous grace she inhabits at the beginning of the novel. By novel’s end, she’s had a rough go indeed. Indeed, The House of Mirth virtually epitomizes The Gilded Age. At the novel’s opening, Lily Bart lives in that gilded world – a world dipped in a shining gilding of gold. The era gets its name from Mark Twain’s 1873 novel, The Gilded Age: A Tale of Today, in which the venerated social satirist makes clear that all that glitters is not gold. What appears to be gold – the lush luxuries of the moneyed class in Manhattan – is actually just thin gold gilding masking serious social problems. Scratch the gilding a bit, and you’ll see the rot, destruction, corruption, and despair underneath. So, too, with Lily and her downfall. Wharton scrapes the gilding off, shows the dirty reality of the world in which Lily lives. Wharton broke astonishingly new ground in The House of Mirth. Writing in the 1936 reprint of her novel, she said: When I wrote House of Mirth I held, without knowing it, two trumps in my hand. One was the fact that New York society in the nineties was a field as yet unexploited by a novelist who had grown up in that little hot-house of tradition and conventions; and the other, that as yet these traditions and conventions were unassailed, and tacitly regarded as unassailable. To learn more about The House of Mirth, check out Daily Kos’s take on it as well as “The Portrait of Miss Bart” in the New York Review of Books. You can view the illustrations from the original 1905 edition at the Edith Wharton Society website. If you want to explore Wharton in depth, you’ll want to read Hermione Lee’s biography of her. The website for Wharton’s home, The Mount, includes a biography and a consideration of her legacy, which inspired Julian Fellowes, the creator of Downton Abbey. You can take a virtual tour of Wharton’s estate, the main house, the stable, and the gardens. C-SPAN’s two-and-a-half-hour special on Edith Wharton – broadcast from The Mount – is well worth viewing. You can read The House of Mirth for free online at Project Gutenberg – but if you’re like me, you’ll want to curl up in your favorite armchair with a hard copy of this delightfully long novel. One last resource is fascinating indeed – a 2007 article in the New York Times – but it reveals the ending of the novel. So wait until you’ve read The House of Mirth before you read “Wharton Letter Reopens a Mystery.” Visit thestoryweb.com/Wharton for links to all these resources. Listen now as I read Chapter 1 of Edith Wharton’s 1905 novel, The House of Mirth. Selden paused in surprise. In the afternoon rush of the Grand Central Station his eyes had been refreshed by the sight of Miss Lily Bart. It was a Monday in early September, and he was returning to his work from a hurried dip into the country; but what was Miss Bart doing in town at that season? If she had appeared to be catching a train, he might have inferred that he had come on her in the act of transition between one and another of the country-houses which disputed her presence after the close of the Newport season; but her desultory air perplexed him. She stood apart from the crowd, letting it drift by her to the platform or the street, and wearing an air of irresolution which might, as he surmised, be the mask of a very definite purpose. It struck him at once that she was waiting for some one, but he hardly knew why the idea arrested him. There was nothing new about Lily Bart, yet he could never see her without a faint movement of interest: it was characteristic of her that she always roused speculation, that her simplest acts seemed the result of far-reaching intentions. An impulse of curiosity made him turn out of his direct line to the door, and stroll past her. He knew that if she did not wish to be seen she would contrive to elude him; and it amused him to think of putting her skill to the test. "Mr. Selden—what good luck!" She came forward smiling, eager almost, in her resolve to intercept him. One or two persons, in brushing past them, lingered to look; for Miss Bart was a figure to arrest even the suburban traveller rushing to his last train. Selden had never seen her more radiant. Her vivid head, relieved against the dull tints of the crowd, made her more conspicuous than in a ball-room, and under her dark hat and veil she regained the girlish smoothness, the purity of tint, that she was beginning to lose after eleven years of late hours and indefatigable dancing. Was it really eleven years, Selden found himself wondering, and had she indeed reached the nine-and-twentieth birthday with which her rivals credited her? "What luck!" she repeated. "How nice of you to come to my rescue!" He responded joyfully that to do so was his mission in life, and asked what form the rescue was to take. "Oh, almost any—even to sitting on a bench and talking to me. One sits out a cotillion—why not sit out a train? It isn't a bit hotter here than in Mrs. Van Osburgh's conservatory—and some of the women are not a bit uglier." She broke off, laughing, to explain that she had come up to town from Tuxedo, on her way to the Gus Trenors' at Bellomont, and had missed the three-fifteen train to Rhinebeck. "And there isn't another till half-past five." She consulted the little jewelled watch among her laces. "Just two hours to wait. And I don't know what to do with myself. My maid came up this morning to do some shopping for me, and was to go on to Bellomont at one o'clock, and my aunt's house is closed, and I don't know a soul in town." She glanced plaintively about the station. "It IS hotter than Mrs. Van Osburgh's, after all. If you can spare the time, do take me somewhere for a breath of air." He declared himself entirely at her disposal: the adventure struck him as diverting. As a spectator, he had always enjoyed Lily Bart; and his course lay so far out of her orbit that it amused him to be drawn for a moment into the sudden intimacy which her proposal implied. "Shall we go over to Sherry's for a cup of tea?" She smiled assentingly, and then made a slight grimace. "So many people come up to town on a Monday—one is sure to meet a lot of bores. I'm as old as the hills, of course, and it ought not to make any difference; but if I'M old enough, you're not," she objected gaily. "I'm dying for tea—but isn't there a quieter place?" He answered her smile, which rested on him vividly. Her discretions interested him almost as much as her imprudences: he was so sure that both were part of the same carefully-elaborated plan. In judging Miss Bart, he had always made use of the "argument from design." "The resources of New York are rather meagre," he said; "but I'll find a hansom first, and then we'll invent something." He led her through the throng of returning holiday-makers, past sallow-faced girls in preposterous hats, and flat-chested women struggling with paper bundles and palm-leaf fans. Was it possible that she belonged to the same race? The dinginess, the crudity of this average section of womanhood made him feel how highly specialized she was. A rapid shower had cooled the air, and clouds still hung refreshingly over the moist street. "How delicious! Let us walk a little," she said as they emerged from the station. They turned into Madison Avenue and began to stroll northward. As she moved beside him, with her long light step, Selden was conscious of taking a luxurious pleasure in her nearness: in the modelling of her little ear, the crisp upward wave of her hair—was it ever so slightly brightened by art?—and the thick planting of her straight black lashes. Everything about her was at once vigorous and exquisite, at once strong and fine. He had a confused sense that she must have cost a great deal to make, that a great many dull and ugly people must, in some mysterious way, have been sacrificed to produce her. He was aware that the qualities distinguishing her from the herd of her sex were chiefly external: as though a fine glaze of beauty and fastidiousness had been applied to vulgar clay. Yet the analogy left him unsatisfied, for a coarse texture will not take a high finish; and was it not possible that the material was fine, but that circumstance had fashioned it into a futile shape? As he reached this point in his speculations the sun came out, and her lifted parasol cut off his enjoyment. A moment or two later she paused with a sigh. "Oh, dear, I'm so hot and thirsty—and what a hideous place New York is!" She looked despairingly up and down the dreary thoroughfare. "Other cities put on their best clothes in summer, but New York seems to sit in its shirtsleeves." Her eyes wandered down one of the side-streets. "Someone has had the humanity to plant a few trees over there. Let us go into the shade." "I am glad my street meets with your approval," said Selden as they turned the corner. "Your street? Do you live here?" She glanced with interest along the new brick and limestone house-fronts, fantastically varied in obedience to the American craving for novelty, but fresh and inviting with their awnings and flower-boxes. "Ah, yes—to be sure: THE BENEDICK. What a nice-looking building! I don't think I've ever seen it before." She looked across at the flat-house with its marble porch and pseudo-Georgian facade. "Which are your windows? Those with the awnings down?" "On the top floor—yes." "And that nice little balcony is yours? How cool it looks up there!" He paused a moment. "Come up and see," he suggested. "I can give you a cup of tea in no time—and you won't meet any bores." Her colour deepened—she still had the art of blushing at the right time—but she took the suggestion as lightly as it was made. "Why not? It's too tempting—I'll take the risk," she declared. "Oh, I'm not dangerous," he said in the same key. In truth, he had never liked her as well as at that moment. He knew she had accepted without afterthought: he could never be a factor in her calculations, and there was a surprise, a refreshment almost, in the spontaneity of her consent. On the threshold he paused a moment, feeling for his latchkey. "There's no one here; but I have a servant who is supposed to come in the mornings, and it's just possible he may have put out the tea-things and provided some cake." He ushered her into a slip of a hall hung with old prints. She noticed the letters and notes heaped on the table among his gloves and sticks; then she found herself in a small library, dark but cheerful, with its walls of books, a pleasantly faded Turkey rug, a littered desk and, as he had foretold, a tea-tray on a low table near the window. A breeze had sprung up, swaying inward the muslin curtains, and bringing a fresh scent of mignonette and petunias from the flower-box on the balcony. Lily sank with a sigh into one of the shabby leather chairs. "How delicious to have a place like this all to one's self! What a miserable thing it is to be a woman." She leaned back in a luxury of discontent. Selden was rummaging in a cupboard for the cake. "Even women," he said, "have been known to enjoy the privileges of a flat." "Oh, governesses—or widows. But not girls—not poor, miserable, marriageable girls!" "I even know a girl who lives in a flat." She sat up in surprise. "You do?" "I do," he assured her, emerging from the cupboard with the sought-for cake. "Oh, I know—you mean Gerty Farish." She smiled a little unkindly. "But I said MARRIAGEABLE—and besides, she has a horrid little place, and no maid, and such queer things to eat. Her cook does the washing and the food tastes of soap. I should hate that, you know." "You shouldn't dine with her on wash-days," said Selden, cutting the cake. They both laughed, and he knelt by the table to light the lamp under the kettle, while she measured out the tea into a little tea-pot of green glaze. As he watched her hand, polished as a bit of old ivory, with its slender pink nails, and the sapphire bracelet slipping over her wrist, he was struck with the irony of suggesting to her such a life as his cousin Gertrude Farish had chosen. She was so evidently the victim of the civilization which had produced her, that the links of her bracelet seemed like manacles chaining her to her fate. She seemed to read his thought. "It was horrid of me to say that of Gerty," she said with charming compunction. "I forgot she was your cousin. But we're so different, you know: she likes being good, and I like being happy. And besides, she is free and I am not. If I were, I daresay I could manage to be happy even in her flat. It must be pure bliss to arrange the furniture just as one likes, and give all the horrors to the ash-man. If I could only do over my aunt's drawing-room I know I should be a better woman." "Is it so very bad?" he asked sympathetically. She smiled at him across the tea-pot which she was holding up to be filled. "That shows how seldom you come there. Why don't you come oftener?" "When I do come, it's not to look at Mrs. Peniston's furniture." "Nonsense," she said. "You don't come at all—and yet we got on so well when we meet." "Perhaps that's the reason," he answered promptly. "I'm afraid I haven't any cream, you know—shall you mind a slice of lemon instead?" "I shall like it better." She waited while he cut the lemon and dropped a thin disk into her cup. "But that is not the reason," she insisted. "The reason for what?" "For your never coming." She leaned forward with a shade of perplexity in her charming eyes. "I wish I knew—I wish I could make you out. Of course I know there are men who don't like me—one can tell that at a glance. And there are others who are afraid of me: they think I want to marry them." She smiled up at him frankly. "But I don't think you dislike me—and you can't possibly think I want to marry you." "No—I absolve you of that," he agreed. "Well, then—-?" He had carried his cup to the fireplace, and stood leaning against the chimney-piece and looking down on her with an air of indolent amusement. The provocation in her eyes increased his amusement—he had not supposed she would waste her powder on such small game; but perhaps she was only keeping her hand in; or perhaps a girl of her type had no conversation but of the personal kind. At any rate, she was amazingly pretty, and he had asked her to tea and must live up to his obligations. "Well, then," he said with a plunge, "perhaps THAT'S the reason." "What?" "The fact that you don't want to marry me. Perhaps I don't regard it as such a strong inducement to go and see you." He felt a slight shiver down his spine as he ventured this, but her laugh reassured him. "Dear Mr. Selden, that wasn't worthy of you. It's stupid of you to make love to me, and it isn't like you to be stupid." She leaned back, sipping her tea with an air so enchantingly judicial that, if they had been in her aunt's drawing-room, he might almost have tried to disprove her deduction. "Don't you see," she continued, "that there are men enough to say pleasant things to me, and that what I want is a friend who won't be afraid to say disagreeable ones when I need them? Sometimes I have fancied you might be that friend—I don't know why, except that you are neither a prig nor a bounder, and that I shouldn't have to pretend with you or be on my guard against you." Her voice had dropped to a note of seriousness, and she sat gazing up at him with the troubled gravity of a child. "You don't know how much I need such a friend," she said. "My aunt is full of copy-book axioms, but they were all meant to apply to conduct in the early fifties. I always feel that to live up to them would include wearing book-muslin with gigot sleeves. And the other women—my best friends—well, they use me or abuse me; but they don't care a straw what happens to me. I've been about too long—people are getting tired of me; they are beginning to say I ought to marry." There was a moment's pause, during which Selden meditated one or two replies calculated to add a momentary zest to the situation; but he rejected them in favour of the simple question: "Well, why don't you?" She coloured and laughed. "Ah, I see you ARE a friend after all, and that is one of the disagreeable things I was asking for." "It wasn't meant to be disagreeable," he returned amicably. "Isn't marriage your vocation? Isn't it what you're all brought up for?" She sighed. "I suppose so. What else is there?" "Exactly. And so why not take the plunge and have it over?" She shrugged her shoulders. "You speak as if I ought to marry the first man who came along." "I didn't mean to imply that you are as hard put to it as that. But there must be some one with the requisite qualifications." She shook her head wearily. "I threw away one or two good chances when I first came out—I suppose every girl does; and you know I am horribly poor—and very expensive. I must have a great deal of money." Selden had turned to reach for a cigarette-box on the mantelpiece. "What's become of Dillworth?" he asked. "Oh, his mother was frightened—she was afraid I should have all the family jewels reset. And she wanted me to promise that I wouldn't do over the drawing-room." "The very thing you are marrying for!" "Exactly. So she packed him off to India." "Hard luck—but you can do better than Dillworth." He offered the box, and she took out three or four cigarettes, putting one between her lips and slipping the others into a little gold case attached to her long pearl chain. "Have I time? Just a whiff, then." She leaned forward, holding the tip of her cigarette to his. As she did so, he noted, with a purely impersonal enjoyment, how evenly the black lashes were set in her smooth white lids, and how the purplish shade beneath them melted into the pure pallour of the cheek. She began to saunter about the room, examining the bookshelves between the puffs of her cigarette-smoke. Some of the volumes had the ripe tints of good tooling and old morocco, and her eyes lingered on them caressingly, not with the appreciation of the expert, but with the pleasure in agreeable tones and textures that was one of her inmost susceptibilities. Suddenly her expression changed from desultory enjoyment to active conjecture, and she turned to Selden with a question. "You collect, don't you—you know about first editions and things?" "As much as a man may who has no money to spend. Now and then I pick up something in the rubbish heap; and I go and look on at the big sales." She had again addressed herself to the shelves, but her eyes now swept them inattentively, and he saw that she was preoccupied with a new idea. "And Americana—do you collect Americana?" Selden stared and laughed. "No, that's rather out of my line. I'm not really a collector, you see; I simply like to have good editions of the books I am fond of." She made a slight grimace. "And Americana are horribly dull, I suppose?" "I should fancy so—except to the historian. But your real collector values a thing for its rarity. I don't suppose the buyers of Americana sit up reading them all night—old Jefferson Gryce certainly didn't." She was listening with keen attention. "And yet they fetch fabulous prices, don't they? It seems so odd to want to pay a lot for an ugly badly-printed book that one is never going to read! And I suppose most of the owners of Americana are not historians either?" "No; very few of the historians can afford to buy them. They have to use those in the public libraries or in private collections. It seems to be the mere rarity that attracts the average collector." He had seated himself on an arm of the chair near which she was standing, and she continued to question him, asking which were the rarest volumes, whether the Jefferson Gryce collection was really considered the finest in the world, and what was the largest price ever fetched by a single volume. It was so pleasant to sit there looking up at her, as she lifted now one book and then another from the shelves, fluttering the pages between her fingers, while her drooping profile was outlined against the warm background of old bindings, that he talked on without pausing to wonder at her sudden interest in so unsuggestive a subject. But he could never be long with her without trying to find a reason for what she was doing, and as she replaced his first edition of La Bruyere and turned away from the bookcases, he began to ask himself what she had been driving at. Her next question was not of a nature to enlighten him. She paused before him with a smile which seemed at once designed to admit him to her familiarity, and to remind him of the restrictions it imposed. "Don't you ever mind," she asked suddenly, "not being rich enough to buy all the books you want?" He followed her glance about the room, with its worn furniture and shabby walls. "Don't I just? Do you take me for a saint on a pillar?" "And having to work—do you mind that?" "Oh, the work itself is not so bad—I'm rather fond of the law." "No; but the being tied down: the routine—don't you ever want to get away, to see new places and people?" "Horribly—especially when I see all my friends rushing to the steamer." She drew a sympathetic breath. "But do you mind enough—to marry to get out of it?" Selden broke into a laugh. "God forbid!" he declared. She rose with a sigh, tossing her cigarette into the grate. "Ah, there's the difference—a girl must, a man may if he chooses." She surveyed him critically. "Your coat's a little shabby—but who cares? It doesn't keep people from asking you to dine. If I were shabby no one would have me: a woman is asked out as much for her clothes as for herself. The clothes are the background, the frame, if you like: they don't make success, but they are a part of it. Who wants a dingy woman? We are expected to be pretty and well-dressed till we drop—and if we can't keep it up alone, we have to go into partnership." Selden glanced at her with amusement: it was impossible, even with her lovely eyes imploring him, to take a sentimental view of her case. "Ah, well, there must be plenty of capital on the look-out for such an investment. Perhaps you'll meet your fate tonight at the Trenors'." She returned his look interrogatively. "I thought you might be going there—oh, not in that capacity! But there are to be a lot of your set—Gwen Van Osburgh, the Wetheralls, Lady Cressida Raith—and the George Dorsets." She paused a moment before the last name, and shot a query through her lashes; but he remained imperturbable. "Mrs. Trenor asked me; but I can't get away till the end of the week; and those big parties bore me." "Ah, so they do me," she exclaimed. "Then why go?" "It's part of the business—you forget! And besides, if I didn't, I should be playing bezique with my aunt at Richfield Springs." "That's almost as bad as marrying Dillworth," he agreed, and they both laughed for pure pleasure in their sudden intimacy. She glanced at the clock. "Dear me! I must be off. It's after five." She paused before the mantelpiece, studying herself in the mirror while she adjusted her veil. The attitude revealed the long slope of her slender sides, which gave a kind of wild-wood grace to her outline—as though she were a captured dryad subdued to the conventions of the drawing-room; and Selden reflected that it was the same streak of sylvan freedom in her nature that lent such savour to her artificiality. He followed her across the room to the entrance-hall; but on the threshold she held out her hand with a gesture of leave-taking. "It's been delightful; and now you will have to return my visit." "But don't you want me to see you to the station?" "No; good bye here, please." She let her hand lie in his a moment, smiling up at him adorably. "Good bye, then—and good luck at Bellomont!" he said, opening the door for her. On the landing she paused to look about her. There were a thousand chances to one against her meeting anybody, but one could never tell, and she always paid for her rare indiscretions by a violent reaction of prudence. There was no one in sight, however, but a char-woman who was scrubbing the stairs. Her own stout person and its surrounding implements took up so much room that Lily, to pass her, had to gather up her skirts and brush against the wall. As she did so, the woman paused in her work and looked up curiously, resting her clenched red fists on the wet cloth she had just drawn from her pail. She had a broad sallow face, slightly pitted with small-pox, and thin straw-coloured hair through which her scalp shone unpleasantly. "I beg your pardon," said Lily, intending by her politeness to convey a criticism of the other's manner. The woman, without answering, pushed her pail aside, and continued to stare as Miss Bart swept by with a murmur of silken linings. Lily felt herself flushing under the look. What did the creature suppose? Could one never do the simplest, the most harmless thing, without subjecting one's self to some odious conjecture? Half way down the next flight, she smiled to think that a char-woman's stare should so perturb her. The poor thing was probably dazzled by such an unwonted apparition. But WERE such apparitions unwonted on Selden's stairs? Miss Bart was not familiar with the moral code of bachelors' flat-houses, and her colour rose again as it occurred to her that the woman's persistent gaze implied a groping among past associations. But she put aside the thought with a smile at her own fears, and hastened downward, wondering if she should find a cab short of Fifth Avenue. Under the Georgian porch she paused again, scanning the street for a hansom. None was in sight, but as she reached the sidewalk she ran against a small glossy-looking man with a gardenia in his coat, who raised his hat with a surprised exclamation. "Miss Bart? Well—of all people! This IS luck," he declared; and she caught a twinkle of amused curiosity between his screwed-up lids. "Oh, Mr. Rosedale—how are you?" she said, perceiving that the irrepressible annoyance on her face was reflected in the sudden intimacy of his smile. Mr. Rosedale stood scanning her with interest and approval. He was a plump rosy man of the blond Jewish type, with smart London clothes fitting him like upholstery, and small sidelong eyes which gave him the air of appraising people as if they were bric-a-brac. He glanced up interrogatively at the porch of the Benedick. "Been up to town for a little shopping, I suppose?" he said, in a tone which had the familiarity of a touch. Miss Bart shrank from it slightly, and then flung herself into precipitate explanations. "Yes—I came up to see my dress-maker. I am just on my way to catch the train to the Trenors'." "Ah—your dress-maker; just so," he said blandly. "I didn't know there were any dress-makers in the Benedick." "The Benedick?" She looked gently puzzled. "Is that the name of this building?" "Yes, that's the name: I believe it's an old word for bachelor, isn't it? I happen to own the building—that's the way I know." His smile deepened as he added with increasing assurance: "But you must let me take you to the station. The Trenors are at Bellomont, of course? You've barely time to catch the five-forty. The dress-maker kept you waiting, I suppose." Lily stiffened under the pleasantry. "Oh, thanks," she stammered; and at that moment her eye caught a hansom drifting down Madison Avenue, and she hailed it with a desperate gesture. "You're very kind; but I couldn't think of troubling you," she said, extending her hand to Mr. Rosedale; and heedless of his protestations, she sprang into the rescuing vehicle, and called out a breathless order to the driver.

138: Theodore Dreiser: "Sister Carrie"

Play Episode Listen Later Jun 11, 2017 43:35

This week on StoryWeb: Theodore Dreiser’s novel Sister Carrie. In 1899, as the soon-to-be-novelist Theodore Dreiser was starting work on Sister Carrie, he was also working on two articles about America’s up-and-coming photographer Alfred Stieglitz. Impressed by Stieglitz’s realistic photography, Dreiser used similar techniques in Sister Carrie, creating “word pictures” to describe city scenes in both Chicago and New York. Relying on photographic elements in these passages, Dreiser emphasized the weather, qualities of light and darkness, and the spectacle aspect of the scenes, thus underlining the stark reality being presented. Born in 1871 in Terre Haute, Indiana, Dreiser worked until 1899 as a newspaper reporter in Chicago, St. Louis, Toledo, Pittsburgh, and New York and then moved on to magazine work. The amount of work he produced for magazines was phenomenal, with 120 pieces appearing in a three-year period. Much of this journalistic work was not of high quality, later earning Dreiser the reputation of being a “hack” writer. But many of the sketches he turned out for both magazines and newspapers evocatively captured city life during the Gilded Age. He brought all this – his love of the emerging field of photography and his fascination with the city – into his creation of his 1900 novel, Sister Carrie. The story of a young Wisconsin woman who heads to the big city to make her mark on the world, the novel is just as much about the two cities it presents: Chicago and New York. Picture after picture of city scenes unfold in the narrative. Many of Dreiser’s word pictures bring to vivid life the cold, snow, and rain – the general gloom and bleakness such unpleasant elements bring. Often these scenes are heavy in their use of black and white, as though the weather had stripped the city of its color. Early in the novel, Dreiser describes Chicago this way: “Once the bright days of summer pass by, a city takes on that sombre garb of grey, wrapt in which it goes about its labours during the long winter. Its endless buildings look grey, its sky and its streets assume a sombre hue; the scattered, leafless trees and wind-blown dust and paper but add to the general solemnity of color.” Similarly, near the end of the novel, Dreiser describes New York City: Already, at four o’clock, the sombre hue of night was thickening the air. A heavy snow was falling – a fine picking, whipping snow, borne forward by a swift wind in long, thin lines. The streets were bedded with it – six inches of cold, soft carpet, churned to a dirty brown by the crush of teams and the feet of men. Along Broadway men picked their way in ulsters and umbrellas. Along the Bowery, men slouched through it with collars and hats pulled over their ears. In the former thoroughfare business men and travelers were making for comfortable hotels. In the latter, crowds on cold errands shifted past dingy stores, in the deep recesses of which lights were already gleaming. There were early lights in the cable cars, whose usual clatter was reduced by the mantle of the wheels. The whole city was muffled by this fast-thickening mantle. With these winter scenes, one can’t help but think of such Stieglitz photographs as The Terminal and Winter, Fifth Avenue, both taken in 1893. So connected are Dreiser and Steiglitz, in fact, that Winter, Fifth Avenue graces the cover of the Norton Critical Edition of Sister Carrie. (If you want a hard copy, this is by all means the version to buy!) In his writings about his approach to fiction, Dreiser said that “True Art Speaks Plainly” (the title of one of his essays). Many years later in an interview, he said that an author needs to be a “sensitive mechanism” so that he can respond to all the life presented to his eyes. “The business of the writer,” he said, “is to hold a mirror up to nature.” Dreiser did that so well for the cities he knew and the people who lived and died in them. To learn more about Dreiser’s life and work, visit Penn Libraries’ Dreiser Web Source, which includes a virtual exhibit on Sister Carrie. I don’t want to give away the intricate and sometimes hair-raising plot of Sister Carrie, but I will say that the Gilded Age is presented in all its gory glory in the rise of its heroine, Carrie Meeber, and the fall of its antihero, Hurstwood. Sister Carrie – named by The Guardian as one of the best 100 novels ever – is a must-read. Visit thestoryweb.com/dreiser for links to all these resources. Listen now as I read Chapter XLV of Sister Carrie. Here, in describing the downfall of Carrie’s former lover, Hurstwood, Dreiser drew heavily on a piece he wrote in 1899 for Demorest’s magazine: “Curious Shifts of the Poor.” It will remind you of Jacob Riis’s photos and writing in How the Other Half Lives as well as Stephen Crane’s magazine sketch “An Experiment in Misery.” CHAPTER XLV of Theodore Dreiser’s novel Sister Carrie: “CURIOUS SHIFTS OF THE POOR” The gloomy Hurstwood, sitting in his cheap hotel, where he had taken refuge with seventy dollars--the price of his furniture-- between him and nothing, saw a hot summer out and a cool fall in, reading. He was not wholly indifferent to the fact that his money was slipping away. As fifty cents after fifty cents were paid out for a day's lodging he became uneasy, and finally took a cheaper room--thirty-five cents a day--to make his money last longer. Frequently he saw notices of Carrie. Her picture was in the "World" once or twice, and an old "Herald" he found in a chair informed him that she had recently appeared with some others at a benefit for something or other. He read these things with mingled feelings. Each one seemed to put her farther and farther away into a realm which became more imposing as it receded from him. On the billboards, too, he saw a pretty poster, showing her as the Quaker Maid, demure and dainty. More than once he stopped and looked at these, gazing at the pretty face in a sullen sort of way. His clothes were shabby, and he presented a marked contrast to all that she now seemed to be. Somehow, so long as he knew she was at the Casino, though he had never any intention of going near her, there was a subconscious comfort for him--he was not quite alone. The show seemed such a fixture that, after a month or two, he began to take it for granted that it was still running. In September it went on the road and he did not notice it. When all but twenty dollars of his money was gone, he moved to a fifteen-cent lodging-house in the Bowery, where there was a bare lounging-room filled with tables and benches as well as some chairs. Here his preference was to close his eyes and dream of other days, a habit which grew upon him. It was not sleep at first, but a mental hearkening back to scenes and incidents in his Chicago life. As the present became darker, the past grew brighter, and all that concerned it stood in relief. He was unconscious of just how much this habit had hold of him until one day he found his lips repeating an old answer he had made to one of his friends. They were in Fitzgerald and Moy's. It was as if he stood in the door of his elegant little office, comfortably dressed, talking to Sagar Morrison about the value of South Chicago real estate in which the latter was about to invest. "How would you like to come in on that with me?" he heard Morrison say. "Not me," he answered, just as he had years before. "I have my hands full now." The movement of his lips aroused him. He wondered whether he had really spoken. The next time he noticed anything of the sort he really did talk. "Why don't you jump, you bloody fool?" he was saying. "Jump!" It was a funny English story he was telling to a company of actors. Even as his voice recalled him, he was smiling. A crusty old codger, sitting near by, seemed disturbed; at least, he stared in a most pointed way. Hurstwood straightened up. The humour of the memory fled in an instant and he felt ashamed. For relief, he left his chair and strolled out into the streets. One day, looking down the ad. columns of the "Evening World," he saw where a new play was at the Casino. Instantly, he came to a mental halt. Carrie had gone! He remembered seeing a poster of her only yesterday, but no doubt it was one left uncovered by the new signs. Curiously, this fact shook him up. He had almost to admit that somehow he was depending upon her being in the city. Now she was gone. He wondered how this important fact had skipped him. Goodness knows when she would be back now. Impelled by a nervous fear, he rose and went into the dingy hall,where he counted his remaining money, unseen. There were but ten dollars in all. He wondered how all these other lodging-house people around him got along. They didn't seem to do anything. Perhaps they begged--unquestionably they did. Many was the dime he had given to such as they in his day. He had seen other men asking for money on the streets. Maybe he could get some that way. There was horror in this thought. Sitting in the lodging-house room, he came to his last fifty cents. He had saved and counted until his health was affected. His stoutness had gone. With it, even the semblance of a fit in his clothes. Now he decided he must do something, and, walking about, saw another day go by, bringing him down to his last twenty cents--not enough to eat for the morrow. Summoning all his courage, he crossed to Broadway and up to the Broadway Central hotel. Within a block he halted, undecided. A big, heavy-faced porter was standing at one of the side entrances, looking out. Hurstwood purposed to appeal to him. Walking straight up, he was upon him before he could turn away. "My friend," he said, recognising even in his plight the man's inferiority, "is there anything about this hotel that I could get to do?" The porter stared at him the while he continued to talk. "I'm out of work and out of money and I've got to get something,-- it doesn't matter what. I don't care to talk about what I've been, but if you'd tell me how to get something to do, I'd be much obliged to you. It wouldn't matter if it only lasted a few days just now. I've got to have something." The porter still gazed, trying to look indifferent. Then, seeing that Hurstwood was about to go on, he said: "I've nothing to do with it. You'll have to ask inside." Curiously, this stirred Hurstwood to further effort. "I thought you might tell me." The fellow shook his head irritably. Inside went the ex-manager and straight to an office off the clerk's desk. One of the managers of the hotel happened to be there. Hurstwood looked him straight in the eye. "Could you give me something to do for a few days?" he said. "I'm in a position where I have to get something at once." The comfortable manager looked at him, as much as to say: "Well, I should judge so." "I came here," explained Hurstwood, nervously, "because I've been a manager myself in my day. I've had bad luck in a way but I'm not here to tell you that. I want something to do, if only for a week." The man imagined he saw a feverish gleam in the applicant's eye. "What hotel did you manage?" he inquired. "It wasn't a hotel," said Hurstwood. "I was manager of Fitzgerald and Moy's place in Chicago for fifteen years." "Is that so?" said the hotel man. "How did you come to get out of that?" The figure of Hurstwood was rather surprising in contrast to the fact. "Well, by foolishness of my own. It isn't anything to talk about now. You could find out if you wanted to. I'm 'broke' now and, if you will believe me, I haven't eaten anything to-day." The hotel man was slightly interested in this story. He could hardly tell what to do with such a figure, and yet Hurstwood's earnestness made him wish to do something. "Call Olsen," he said, turning to the clerk. In reply to a bell and a disappearing hall-boy, Olsen, the head porter, appeared. "Olsen," said the manager, "is there anything downstairs you could find for this man to do? I'd like to give him something." "I don't know, sir," said Olsen. "We have about all the help we need. I think I could find something, sir, though, if you like." "Do. Take him to the kitchen and tell Wilson to give him something to eat." "All right, sir," said Olsen. Hurstwood followed. Out of the manager's sight, the head porter's manner changed. "I don't know what the devil there is to do," he observed. Hurstwood said nothing. To him the big trunk hustler was a subject for private contempt. "You're to give this man something to eat," he observed to the cook. The latter looked Hurstwood over, and seeing something keen and intellectual in his eyes, said: "Well, sit down over there." Thus was Hurstwood installed in the Broadway Central, but not for long. He was in no shape or mood to do the scrub work that exists about the foundation of every hotel. Nothing better offering, he was set to aid the fireman, to work about the basement, to do anything and everything that might offer. Porters, cooks, firemen, clerks--all were over him. Moreover his appearance did not please these individuals--his temper was toolonely--and they made it disagreeable for him. With the stolidity and indifference of despair, however, he endured it all, sleeping in an attic at the roof of the house, eating what the cook gave him, accepting a few dollars a week, which he tried to save. His constitution was in no shape to endure. One day the following February he was sent on an errand to a large coal company's office. It had been snowing and thawing and the streets were sloppy. He soaked his shoes in his progress and came back feeling dull and weary. All the next day he felt unusually depressed and sat about as much as possible, to the irritation of those who admired energy in others. In the afternoon some boxes were to be moved to make room for new culinary supplies. He was ordered to handle a truck. Encountering a big box, he could not lift it. "What's the matter there?" said the head porter. "Can't you handle it?" He was straining to lift it, but now he quit. "No," he said, weakly. The man looked at him and saw that he was deathly pale. "Not sick, are you?" he asked. "I think I am," returned Hurstwood. "Well, you'd better go sit down, then." This he did, but soon grew rapidly worse. It seemed all he could do to crawl to his room, where he remained for a day. "That man Wheeler's sick," reported one of the lackeys to the night clerk. "What's the matter with him?" "I don't know. He's got a high fever." The hotel physician looked at him. "Better send him to Bellevue," he recommended. "He's got pneumonia." Accordingly, he was carted away. In three weeks the worst was over, but it was nearly the first of May before his strength permitted him to be turned out. Then he was discharged. No more weakly looking object ever strolled out into the spring sunshine than the once hale, lusty manager. All his corpulency had fled. His face was thin and pale, his hands white, his body flabby. Clothes and all, he weighed but one hundred and thirty- five pounds. Some old garments had been given him--a cheap brown coat and misfit pair of trousers. Also some change and advice. He was told to apply to the charities. Again he resorted to the Bowery lodging-house, brooding over where to look. From this it was but a step to beggary. "What can a man do?" he said. "I can't starve." His first application was in sunny Second Avenue. A well-dressed man came leisurely strolling toward him out of Stuyvesant Park. Hurstwood nerved himself and sidled near. "Would you mind giving me ten cents?" he said, directly. "I'm in a position where I must ask some one." The man scarcely looked at him, fished in his vest pocket and took out a dime. "There you are," he said. "Much obliged," said Hurstwood, softly, but the other paid no more attention to him. Satisfied with his success and yet ashamed of his situation, he decided that he would only ask for twenty-five cents more, since that would be sufficient. He strolled about sizing up people, but it was long before just the right face and situation arrived. When he asked, he was refused. Shocked by this result, he took an hour to recover and then asked again. This time a nickel was given him. By the most watchful effort he did get twenty cents more, but it was painful. The next day he resorted to the same effort, experiencing a variety of rebuffs and one or two generous receptions. At last it crossed his mind that there was a science of faces, and that a man could pick the liberal countenance if he tried. It was no pleasure to him, however, this stopping of passers-by. He saw one man taken up for it and now troubled lest he should be arrested. Nevertheless, he went on, vaguely anticipating that indefinite something which is always better. It was with a sense of satisfaction, then, that he saw announced one morning the return of the Casino Company, "with Miss Carrie Madenda." He had thought of her often enough in days past. How successful she was--how much money she must have! Even now, however, it took a severe run of ill luck to decide him to appeal to her. He was truly hungry before he said: "I'll ask her. She won't refuse me a few dollars." Accordingly, he headed for the Casino one afternoon, passing it several times in an effort to locate the stage entrance. Then he sat in Bryant Park, a block away, waiting. "She can't refuse to help me a little," he kept saying to himself. Beginning with half-past six, he hovered like a shadow about the Thirty-ninth Street entrance, pretending always to be a hurrying pedestrian and yet fearful lest he should miss his object. He was slightly nervous, too, now that the eventful hour had arrived; but being weak and hungry, his ability to suffer was modified. At last he saw that the actors were beginning to arrive, and his nervous tension increased, until it seemed as if he could not stand much more. Once he thought he saw Carrie coming and moved forward, only to see that he was mistaken. "She can't be long, now," he said to himself, half fearing to encounter her and equally depressed at the thought that she might have gone in by another way. His stomach was so empty that it ached. Individual after individual passed him, nearly all well dressed, almost all indifferent. He saw coaches rolling by, gentlemen passing with ladies--the evening's merriment was beginning in this region of theatres and hotels. Suddenly a coach rolled up and the driver jumped down to open the door. Before Hurstwood could act, two ladies flounced across the broad walk and disappeared in the stage door. He thought he saw Carrie, but it was so unexpected, so elegant and far away, he could hardly tell. He waited a while longer, growing feverish with want, and then seeing that the stage door no longer opened, and that a merry audience was arriving, he concluded it must have been Carrie and turned away. "Lord," he said, hastening out of the street into which the more fortunate were pouring, "I've got to get something." At that hour, when Broadway is wont to assume its most interesting aspect, a peculiar individual invariably took his stand at the corner of Twenty-sixth Street and Broadway--a spot which is also intersected by Fifth Avenue. This was the hour when the theatres were just beginning to receive their patrons. Fire signs announcing the night's amusements blazed on every hand. Cabs and carriages, their lamps gleaming like yellow eyes,pattered by. Couples and parties of three and four freely mingled in the common crowd, which poured by in a thick stream, laughing and jesting. On Fifth Avenue were loungers--a few wealthy strollers, a gentleman in evening dress with his lady on his arm, some club-men passing from one smoking-room to another. Across the way the great hotels showed a hundred gleaming windows, their cafes and billiard-rooms filled with acomfortable, well-dressed, and pleasure-loving throng. All about was the night, pulsating with the thoughts of pleasure and exhilaration--the curious enthusiasm of a great city bent upon finding joy in a thousand different ways. This unique individual was no less than an ex-soldier turned religionist, who, having suffered the whips and privations of our peculiar social system, had concluded that his duty to the God which he conceived lay in aiding his fellow-man. The form of aid which he chose to administer was entirely original with himself. It consisted of securing a bed for all such homeless wayfarers as should apply to him at this particular spot, though he had scarcely the wherewithal to provide a comfortable habitation for himself. Taking his place amid this lightsome atmosphere, he would stand, his stocky figure cloaked in a great cape overcoat, his head protected by a broad slouch hat, awaiting the applicants who had in various ways learned the nature of his charity. For a while he would stand alone, gazing like any idler upon an ever- fascinating scene. On the evening in question, a policeman passing saluted him as "captain," in a friendly way. An urchin who had frequently seen him before, stopped to gaze. All others took him for nothing out of the ordinary, save in the matter of dress, and conceived of him as a stranger whistling and idling for his own amusement. As the first half-hour waned, certain characters appeared. Here and there in the passing crowds one might see, now and then, a loiterer edging interestedly near. A slouchy figure crossed the opposite corner and glanced furtively in his direction. Another came down Fifth Avenue to the corner of Twenty-sixth Street, took a general survey, and hobbled off again. Two or three noticeable Bowery types edged along the Fifth Avenue side of Madison Square, but did not venture over. The soldier, in his cape overcoat, walked a short line of ten feet at his corner, to and fro,indifferently whistling. As nine o'clock approached, some of the hubbub of the earlier hour passed. The atmosphere of the hotels was not so youthful. The air, too, was colder. On every hand curious figures were moving--watchers and peepers, without an imaginary circle, which they seemed afraid to enter--a dozen in all. Presently, with the arrival of a keener sense of cold, one figure came forward. It crossed Broadway from out the shadow of Twenty-sixth Street, and, in a halting, circuitous way, arrived close to the waiting figure. There was something shamefaced or diffident about themovement, as if the intention were to conceal any idea of stopping until the very last moment. Then suddenly, close to the soldier, came the halt. The captain looked in recognition, but there was no especial greeting. The newcomer nodded slightly and murmured something like one who waits for gifts. The other simply motioned to-ward the edge of the walk. "Stand over there," he said. By this the spell was broken. Even while the soldier resumed his short, solemn walk, other figures shuffled forward. They did not so much as greet the leader, but joined the one, sniffling and hitching and scraping their feet. "Gold, ain't it?" "I'm glad winter's over." "Looks as though it might rain." The motley company had increased to ten. One or two knew each other and conversed. Others stood off a few feet, not wishing to be in the crowd and yet not counted out. They were peevish, crusty, silent, eying nothing in particular and moving their feet. There would have been talking soon, but the soldier gave them no chance. Counting sufficient to begin, he came forward. "Beds, eh, all of you?" There was a general shuffle and murmur of approval. "Well, line up here. I'll see what I can do. I haven't a cent myself." They fell into a sort of broken, ragged line. One might see, now, some of the chief characteristics by contrast. There was a wooden leg in the line. Hats were all drooping, a group that would ill become a second-hand Hester Street basement collection. Trousers were all warped and frayed at the bottom and coats worn and faded. In the glare of the store lights, some of the faces looked dry and chalky; others were red with blotches and puffed in the cheeks and under the eyes; one or two were rawboned and reminded one of railroad hands. A few spectators came near, drawn by the seemingly conferring group, then more and more, and quickly there was a pushing, gaping crowd. Some one in the line began to talk. "Silence!" exclaimed the captain. "Now, then, gentlemen, these men are without beds. They have to have some place to sleep to- night. They can't lie out in the streets. I need twelve cents to put one of them to bed. Who will give it to me?" No reply. "Well, we'll have to wait here, boys, until some one does. Twelve cents isn't so very much for one man." "Here's fifteen," exclaimed a young man, peering forward with strained eyes. "It's all I can afford." "All right. Now I have fifteen. Step out of the line," and seizing one by the shoulder, the captain marched him off a little way and stood him up alone. Coming back, he resumed his place and began again. "I have three cents left. These men must be put to bed somehow. There are"--counting--"one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve men. Nine cents more will put the next man to bed; give him a good, comfortable bed for the night. I go right along and look after that myself. Who will give me nine cents?" One of the watchers, this time a middle-aged man, handed him a five-cent piece. "Now, I have eight cents. Four more will give this man a bed. Come, gentlemen. We are going very slow this evening. You all have good beds. How about these?" "Here you are," remarked a bystander, putting a coin into his hand. "That," said the captain, looking at the coin, "pays for two beds for two men and gives me five on the next one. Who will give me seven cents more?" "I will," said a voice. Coming down Sixth Avenue this evening, Hurstwood chanced to cross east through Twenty-sixth Street toward Third Avenue. He was wholly disconsolate in spirit, hungry to what he deemed an almost mortal extent, weary, and defeated. How should he get at Carrie now? It would be eleven before the show was over. If she came in a coach, she would go away in one. He would need to interrupt under most trying circumstances. Worst of all, he was hungry and weary, and at best a whole day must intervene, for he had not heart to try again to-night. He had no food and no bed. When he neared Broadway, he noticed the captain's gathering of wanderers, but thinking it to be the result of a street preacher or some patent medicine fakir, was about to pass on. However, in crossing the street toward Madison Square Park, he noticed the line of men whose beds were already secured, stretching out from the main body of the crowd. In the glare of the neighbouring electric light he recognised a type of his own kind--the figures whom he saw about the streets and in the lodging-houses, drifting in mind and body like himself. He wondered what it could be and turned back. There was the captain curtly pleading as before. He heard with astonishment and a sense of relief the oft-repeated words: "These men must have a bed." Before him was the line of unfortunates whose beds were yet to be had, and seeing a newcomer quietly edge up and take a position at the end of the line, he decided to do likewise. What use to contend? He was weary to-night. It was a simple way out of one difficulty, at least. To-morrow, maybe, he would do better. Back of him, where some of those were whose beds were safe, a relaxed air was apparent. The strain of uncertainty being removed, he heard them talking with moderate freedom and some leaning toward sociability. Politics, religion, the state of the government, some newspaper sensations, and the more notorious facts the world over, found mouthpieces and auditors there. Cracked and husky voices pronounced forcibly upon odd matters.Vague and rambling observations were made in reply. There were squints, and leers, and some dull, ox-like stares from those who were too dull or too weary to converse. Standing tells. Hurstwood became more weary waiting. He thought he should drop soon and shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. At last his turn came. The man ahead had been paid for and gone to the blessed line of success. He was now first, and already the captain was talking for him. "Twelve cents, gentlemen--twelve cents puts this man to bed. He wouldn't stand here in the cold if he had any place to go." Hurstwood swallowed something that rose to his throat. Hunger and weakness had made a coward of him. "Here you are," said a stranger, handing money to the captain. Now the latter put a kindly hand on the ex-manager's shoulder. "Line up over there," he said. Once there, Hurstwood breathed easier. He felt as if the world were not quite so bad with such a good man in it. Others seemed to feel like himself about this. "Captain's a great feller, ain't he?" said the man ahead--a little, woebegone, helpless-looking sort of individual, who looked as though he had ever been the sport and care of fortune. "Yes," said Hurstwood, indifferently. "Huh! there's a lot back there yet," said a man farther up, leaning out and looking back at the applicants for whom the captain was pleading. "Yes. Must be over a hundred to-night," said another. "Look at the guy in the cab," observed a third. A cab had stopped. Some gentleman in evening dress reached out a bill to the captain, who took it with simple thanks and turned away to his line. There was a general craning of necks as the jewel in the white shirt front sparkled and the cab moved off. Even the crowd gaped in awe. "That fixes up nine men for the night," said the captain, counting out as many of the line near him. "Line up over there. Now, then, there are only seven. I need twelve cents." Money came slowly. In the course of time the crowd thinned out to a meagre handful. Fifth Avenue, save for an occasional cab or foot passenger, was bare. Broadway was thinly peopled with pedestrians. Only now and then a stranger passing noticed the small group, handed out a coin, and went away, unheeding. The captain remained stolid and determined. He talked on, very slowly, uttering the fewest words and with a certain assurance, as though he could not fail. "Come; I can't stay out here all night. These men are getting tired and cold. Some one give me four cents." There came a time when he said nothing at all. Money was handed him, and for each twelve cents he singled out a man and put him in the other line. Then he walked up and down as before, looking at the ground. The theatres let out. Fire signs disappeared. A clock struck eleven. Another half-hour and he was down to the last two men. "Come, now," he exclaimed to several curious observers; "eighteen cents will fix us all up for the night. Eighteen cents. I have six. Somebody give me the money. Remember, I have to go over to Brooklyn yet to-night. Before that I have to take these men down and put them to bed. Eighteen cents." No one responded. He walked to and fro, looking down for several minutes, occasionally saying softly: "Eighteen cents." It seemed as if this paltry sum would delay the desired culmination longer than all the rest had. Hurstwood, buoyed up slightly by the long line of which he was a part, refrained with an effort from groaning, he was so weak. At last a lady in opera cape and rustling skirts came down Fifth Avenue, accompanied by her escort. Hurstwood gazed wearily, reminded by her both of Carrie in her new world and of the time when he had escorted his own wife in like manner. While he was gazing, she turned and, looking at the remarkable company, sent her escort over. He came, holding a bill in his fingers, all elegant and graceful. "Here you are," he said. "Thanks," said the captain, turning to the two remaining applicants. "Now we have some for to-morrow night," he added. Therewith he lined up the last two and proceeded to the head, counting as he went. "One hundred and thirty-seven," he announced. "Now, boys, line up. Right dress there. We won't be much longer about this. Steady, now." He placed himself at the head and called out "Forward." Hurstwood moved with the line. Across Fifth Avenue, through Madison Square by the winding paths, east on Twenty-third Street, and down Third Avenue wound the long, serpentine company. Midnight pedestrians and loiterers stopped and stared as the company passed. Chatting policemen, at various corners, stared indifferently or nodded to the leader, whom they had seen before. On Third Avenue they marched, a seemingly weary way, to Eighth Street, where there was a lodginghouse, closed, apparently, for the night. They were expected, however. Outside in the gloom they stood, while the leader parleyed within. Then doors swung open and they were invited in with a "Steady, now." Some one was at the head showing rooms, so that there was no delay for keys. Toiling up the creaky stairs, Hurstwood looked back and saw the captain, watching; the last one of the line being included in his broad solicitude. Then he gathered his cloak about him and strolled out into the night. "I can't stand much of this," said Hurstwood, whose legs ached him painfully, as he sat down upon the miserable bunk in the small, lightless chamber allotted to him. "I've got to eat, or I'll die."

137: Stephen Crane: "An Experiment in Misery"

Play Episode Listen Later Apr 30, 2017 38:45

This week on StoryWeb: Stephen Crane’s article “An Experiment in Misery.” Many Americans know Stephen Crane as the author of the Civil War novel, The Red Badge of Courage, which made Crane famous at the age of 23 when it was serialized in 1894. It was published as a full-length book in 1895. Some know his first novel, Maggie: A Girl of the Streets, or even the harrowing short story “The Open Boat,” based on a real-life experience when Crane was en route to Cuba and spent 30 hours adrift with others in a lifeboat. Less well-known to most readers is Crane’s work as a journalist. Born in 1871 in Newark, New Jersey, Crane floundered around from college (which he didn’t finish) to one vocational pursuit after another. When he found himself drawn to New York City in the 1890s and took work as a newspaper writer, he appeared to have found his calling. Crane would make a peripatetic living for the rest of his short life as a fiction writer and correspondent from various locations throughout the western hemisphere. He filed stories from the Western United States, from Mexico City, from Cuba during the Spanish-American War, and from the Greco-Turkish War front in Greece, where he was joined in his writing by his common-law wife, Cora Crane, recognized as the first woman war correspondent. Stephen Crane died at age 28 of tuberculosis. But it’s Crane’s writing about New York City in the 1890s that interests me. Working from a home base in nearby Paterson, New Jersey, he made frequent day trips into New York City and spent considerable time in the tenement districts and especially the Bowery. Eventually, he moved into a rooming house in Manhattan. Thus, Crane was one of the journalists – writers, photographers, illustrators – who were on the streets at the height of the Gilded Age. Like Jacob Riis in How the Other Half Lives and like Alfred Stieglitz in such photographs as The Terminal and Winter, Fifth Avenue, Crane offers us a view into New York life at this crucial time in its history. Perhaps Crane’s most famous piece of journalism is “An Experiment in Misery,” which was first published in 1894 in the New York Press and, in a slightly revised version, as part of The Open Boat and Other Tales of Adventure, a volume Crane published in 1898. In this piece – which to today’s readers will read more like a sketch or even a short story than an objective work of “journalism” – Crane imagines what it would be like to disguise oneself as a Bowery bum and go undercover to explore the realities of that grim life. The lengthy headline tells you all you need to know about journalistic style in the 1890s: AN EXPERIMENT IN MISERY An Evening, a Night and a Morning with Those Cast Out. THE TRAMP LIVES LIKE A KING But His Royalty, to the Novitiate, Has Drawbacks of Smells and Bugs. LODGED WITH AN ASSASSIN A Wonderfully Vivid Picture of a Strange Phase of New York Life, Written for “The Press” by the Author of “Maggie.” Newspaper articles on “indigent Americans and the ‘Tramp Menace,’” says the Library of America’s Story of the Week website, were common during the late nineteenth century. A few reporters actually did dress as bums and explore their haunts, but apparently Crane did not himself conduct such an experiment. He did, however, base the imagined experiment on his real-life knowledge of the Bowery, a once-fashionable neighborhood in southern Manhattan now home to saloons, brothels, and rapidly increasing numbers of homeless people in New York City. The result is a vivid account of life as a Bowery bum, as homeless men were known at the time. Just as Crane had never been a soldier in a war yet imagined the Civil War more vividly and “realistically” than any other writer up to that time, so, too, he used his considerable skills of observation and his imagination to conjure up what it would be like to live as a homeless man in New York City. As it turns out, Crane may have had too much exposure to life in the Bowery. Crane spent time, says one source, in the “saloons, dance halls, brothels and flophouses” of the Bowery. While he claimed he did so for research, his scandalous involvement with prostitutes and madams (most notably Cora Crane, who was operating the Hotel de Dream when Crane met her in Jacksonville, Florida) and other close dealings with the shadier set suggests that Crane was personally drawn to these seedy elements that were so far from his strict upbringing among Methodist ministers and temperance leaders. He said once that the slums were “open and plain, with nothing hidden,” and he seemed to find solace in that. You can read the original version of “An Experiment in Misery” at WikiSource. Unlike the later version published in The Open Boat and Other Tales of Adventure, the original version published in the newspaper included a “Foreword” and a “Coda” explaining that the sketch presented is an experiment, that a young man disguises himself as a bum to experience that life directly for himself. To read the version published in The Open Boat, get your hands on a copy of Crane: Prose and Poetry, the outstanding collection published by the Library of America. To learn more about Crane, read the New Yorker’s article “The Red and the Scarlet: The Hectic Career of Stephen Crane.” If you want to go into depth in your exploration of Crane, you can read Paul Sorrentino’s biography, Stephen Crane: A Life of Fire, which tells the story of how Sorrentino and scholar Stanley Wertheim delved deeply into Crane research and archives to debunk common, longstanding myths about Crane. Although Crane’s writing fell into obscurity for some time after his death, interest in his work was resurrected in the 1920s. He had a particularly strong influence on Ernest Hemingway, who himself was a journalist and a novelist of war. Next week, I’ll feature a novel by another journalist-turned-novelist: Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser. Published in 1900, it is perhaps the masterpiece of the Gilded Age. Tune in next week to learn how Dreiser pulled together the work of Riis, Stieglitz, and Crane to create a complex, multifaceted novel. Visit thestoryweb.com/crane for links to all these resources. Listen now as I read “An Experiment in Misery,” as originally published in the New York Press in 1894. “Foreword” Two men stood regarding a tramp. "I wonder how he feels," said one, reflectively. "I suppose he is homeless, friendless, and has, at the most, only a few cents in his pocket. And if this is so, I wonder how he feels." The other being the elder, spoke with an air of authoritative wisdom. "You can tell nothing of it unless you are in that condition yourself. It is idle to speculate about it from this distance." "I suppose so," said the younger man, and then he added as from an inspiration: "I think I'll try it. Rags and tatters, you know, a couple of dimes, and hungry, too, if possible. Perhaps I could discover his point of view or something near it." "Well, you might," said the other, and from those words begins this veracious narrative of an experiment in misery. The youth went to the studio of an artist friend, who, from his store, rigged him out in an aged suit and a brown derby hat that had been made long years before. And then the youth went forth to try to eat as the tramp may eat, and sleep as the wanderers sleep. “An Experiment in Misery” It was late at night, and a fine rain was swirling softly down, causing the pavements to glisten with hue of steel and blue and yellow in the rays of the innumerable lights. A youth was trudging slowly, without enthusiasm, with his hands buried deep in his trouser's pockets, towards the down-town places where beds can be hired for coppers. He was clothed in an aged and tattered suit, and his derby was a marvel of dust-covered crown and torn rim. He was going forth to eat as the wanderer may eat, and sleep as the homeless sleep. By the time he had reached City Hall Park he was so completely plastered with yells of "bum" and "hobo," and with various unholy epithets that small boyshad applied to him at intervals, that he was in a state of the most profound dejection. The sifting rain saturated the old velvet collar of his overcoat, and as the wet cloth pressed against his neck, he felt that there no longer could be pleasure in life. He looked about him searching for an outcast of highest degree that they too might share miseries, but the lights threw a quivering glare over rows and circles of deserted benches that glistened damply, showing patches of wet sod behind them. It seemed that their usual freights had fled on this night to better things. There were only squads of well-dressed Brooklyn people who swarmed towards the bridge. The young man loitered about for a time and then went shuffling off down Park Row. In the sudden descent in style of the dress of the crowd he felt relief, and as if he were at last in his own country. He began to see tatters that matched his tatters. In Chatham Square there were aimless men strewn in front of saloons and lodging-houses, standing sadly, patiently, reminding one vaguely of the attitudes of chickens in a storm. He aligned himself with these men, and turned slowly to occupy himself with the flowing life of the great street. Through the mists of the cold and storming night, the cable cars went in silent procession, great affairs shining with red and brass, moving with formidable power, calm and irresistible, dangerful and gloomy, breaking silence only by the loud fierce cry of the gong. Two rivers of people swarmed along the side walks, spattered with black mud, which made each shoe leave a scar-like impression. Overhead elevated trains with a shrill grinding of the wheels stopped at the station, which upon its leg-like pillars seemed to resemble some monstrous kind of crab squatting over the street. The quick fat puffings of the engines could be heard. Down an alley there were sombre curtains of purple and black, on which street lamps dully glittered like embroidered flowers. A saloon stood with a voracious air on a corner. A sign leaning against the front of the door-post announced "Free hot soup to-night!" The swing doors, snapping to and fro like ravenous lips, made gratified smacks as the saloon gorged itself with plump men, eating with astounding and endless appetite, smiling in some indescribable manner as the men came from all directions like sacrifices to a heathenish superstition. Caught by the delectable sign the young man allowed himself to be swallowed. A bar-tender placed a schooner of dark and portentous beer on the bar. Its monumental form upreared until the froth a-top was above the crown of the young man's brown derby. "Soup over there, gents," said the bar-tender affably. A little yellow man in rags and the youth grasped their schooners and went with speed toward a lunch counter, where a man with oily but imposing whiskers ladled genially from a kettle until he had furnished his two mendicants with a soup that was steaming hot, and in which there were little floating suggestions of chicken. The young man, sipping his broth, felt the cordiality expressed by the warmth of the mixture, and he beamed at the man with oily but imposing whiskers, who was presiding like a priest behind an altar. "Have some more, gents?" he inquired of the two sorry figures before him. The little yellow man accepted with a swift gesture, but the youth shook his head and went out, following a man whose wondrous seediness promised that he would have a knowledge of cheap lodging-houses. On the side-walk he accosted the seedy man. "Say, do you know a cheap place to sleep?" The other hesitated for a time gazing sideways. Finally he nodded in the direction of the street, "I sleep up there," he said, "when I've got the price." "How much?" "Ten cents." The young man shook his head dolefully. "That's too rich for me." At that moment there approached the two a reeling man in strange garments. His head was a fuddle of bushy hair and whiskers, from which his eyes peered with a guilty slant. In a close scrutiny it was possible to distinguish the cruel lines of a mouth which looked as if its lips had just closed with satisfaction over some tender and piteous morsel. He appeared like an assassin steeped in crimes performed awkwardly. But at this time his voice was tuned to the coaxing key of an affectionate puppy. He looked at the men with wheedling eyes, and began to sing a little melody for charity. "Say, gents, can't yeh give a poor feller a couple of cents t' git a bed. I got five, and I gits anudder two I gits me a bad. Now, on th' square, gents, can't yeh jest gimme two cents t' git a bed? Now, yeh know how a respecter'ble gentlm'n feels when he's down on his luck, an' I--" The seedy man, staring imperturbable countenance at a train which clattered oerhead, interrupted in an expressionless voice--"Ah, go t' h--!" But the youth spoke to the prayerful assassin in tones of astonishment and inquiry. "Say, you must be crazy! Why don't yeh strike somebody that looks as if they had money?" The assassin, tottering about on his uncertain legs, and at intervals brushing imaginary obstacles from before his nose, entered into a long explanation of the psychology of the situation. It was so profound that it was unintelligible. When he had exhausted the subject, the young man said to him-- "Let's see th' five cents." The assassin wore an expression of drunken woe at this sentence, filled with suspicion of him. With a deeply pained air he began to fumble in his clothing, his red hands trembling. Presently he announced in a voice of bitter grief, as if he had been betrayed--"There's on'y four." "Four," said the young man thoughtfully. "Well, look-a-here, I'm a stranger here, an' if ye'll steer me to your cheap joint I'll find the other three." The assassin's countenance became instantly radiant with joy. His whiskers quivered with the wealth of his alleged emotions. He seized the young man's hand in a transport of delight and friendliness. "B' Gawd," he cried, "if ye'll do that, b' Gawd, I'd say yeh was a damned good fellow, I would, an' I'd remember yeh all m' life, I would, b' Gawd, an' if I ever got a chance I'd return the compliment"--he spoke with drunken dignity,--"b' Gawd, I'd treat yeh white, I would, an' I'd allus remember yeh." The young man drew back, looking at the assassin coldly. "Oh, that's all right," he said. "You show me th' joint--that's all youv'e got t' do." The assassin, gesticulating gratitude, led the young man along a dark street. Finally he stopped before a little dusty door. He raised his hand impressively. "Look-a-here," he said, and there was a thrill of deep and ancient wisdom upon his face, "I've brought yeh here, an' that's my part, ain't it? If th' place don't suit yeh, yeh needn't git mad at me, need yeh? There won't be no bad feelin', will there?" "No," said the young man. The assassin waved his arm tragically, and led the march up the steep stairway. On the way the young man furnished the assassin with three pennies. At the top a man with benevolent spectacles looked at them through a hole in a board. he collected their money, wrote some names on a register, and speedily was leading the two men along a gloom-shrouded corridor. Shortly after the beginning of this journey the young man felt his liver turn white, for from the dark and secret places of the building there suddenly came to his nostrils strange and unspeakable odors, that assailed him like malignant diseases with wings. They seemed to be from human bodies closely packed in dens; the exhalations from a hundred pairs of reeking lips; the fumes from a thousand bygone debauches; the expression of a thousand present miseries. A man, naked save for a little snuff-coloured under-shirt, was parading sleepily along the corridor. He rubbed his eyes, and, giving vent to a prodigious yawn, demanded to be told the time. "Half-past one." The man yawned again. He opened a door, and for a moment his form was outlined against a black, opaque interior. To this door came the three men, and as it was again opened the unholy odours rushed out like fiends, so that the young man was obliged to struggle against an overpowering wind. It was some time before the youth's eyes were good in the intense gloom within, but the man with benevolent spectacles led him skilfully, pausing but a moment to deposit the limp assassin upon a cot. He took the youth to a coat that lay tranquilly by the window, and showing him a tall locker for clothes that stood near the head with the ominous air of a tombstone, left him. The youth sat on his cot and peered about him. There was a gas-jet in a distant part of the room, that burned a small flickering orange-hued flame. It caused vast masses of tumbled shadows in all parts of the place, save where, immediately about it, there was a little grey haze. As the young man's eyes became used to the darkness, he could see upon the cots that thickly littered the floor the forms of men sprawled out, lying in death-like silence, or heaving and snoring with tremendous effort, like stabbed fish. The youth locked his derby and his shoes in the mummy case near him, and then lay down with an old and familiar coat around his shoulders. A blanket he handled gingerly, drawing it over part of the coat. The cot was covered with leather, and as cold as melting snow. The youth was obliged to shiver for some time on this affair, which was like a slab. Presently, however, his chill gave him peace, and during this period of leisure from it he turned his head to stare at his friend the assassin, whom he could dimly discern where he lay sprawled on a coat in the abandon of a man filled with drink. He was snoring with incredible vigour. His wet hair and beard dimly glistened, and his inflamed nose shone with subdued lustre like a red light in a fog. Within reach of the youth's hand was one who lay with yellow breast and shoulders bare to the cold drafts. One arm hung over the side of the cot, and the fingers lay full length upon the wet cement floor of the room. Beneath the inky brows could be seen the eyes of the man exposed by the partly opened lids. To the youth it seemed that he and this corpse-like being were exchanging a prolonged stare, and that the other threatened with his eyes. He drew back watching his neighbour from the shadows of his blanket edge. The man did not move once through the night, but lay in this stillness as of death like a body stretched out expectant of the surgeon's knife. And all through the room could be seen the tawny hues of naked flesh, limbs thrust into the darkness, projecting beyond the cots; upreared knees, arms hanging long and thin over the cot edges. For the most part they were statuesque, carven, dead. With the curious lockers standing all about like tombstones, there was a strange effect of a graveyard where bodies were merely flung. Yet occasionally could be seen limbs wildly tossing in fantastic nightmare gestures, accompanied by guttural cries, grunts, oaths. And there was one fellow off in a gloomy corner, who in his dreams was oppressed by some frightful calamity, for of a sudden he began to utter long wails that went almost like yells from a hound, echoing wailfully and weird through this chill place of tombstones where men lay like the dead. The sound in its high piercing beginnings, that dwindled to final melancholy moans, expressed a red grim tragedy of the unfathomable possibilities of the man's dreams. But to the youth these were not merely the shrieks of a vision-pierced man: they were an utterance of the meaning of the room and its occupants. It was to him the protest of the wretch who feels the touch of the imperturbable granite wheels, and who then cries with an impersonal eloquence, with a strength not from him, giving voice to the wail of a whole section, a class, a people. This, weaving into the young man's brain, and mingling with his views of the vast and sombre shadows that, like mighty black fingers, curled around the naked bodies, made the young man so that he did not sleep, but lay carving the biographies for these men from his meagre experience. At times the fellow in the corner howled in a writing agony of his imaginations. Finally a long lance-point of grey light shot through the dusty panes of the window. Without, the young man could see roofs drearily white in the dawning. The point of light yellowed and grew brighter, until the golden rays of the morning sun came in bravely and strong. They touched with radiant colour the form of a small fat man, who snored in stuttering fashion. His round and shiny bald head glowed suddenly with the valour of a decoration. He sat up, blinked at the sun, swore fretfully, and pulled his blanket over the ornamental splendours of his head. The youth contentedly watched this rout of the shadows before the bright spears of the sun, and presently he slumbered. When he awoke he heard the voice of the assassin raised in valiant curses. Putting up his head, he perceived his comrade seated on the side of the cot engaged in scratching his neck with long finger-nails that rasped like flies. "Hully Jee, dis is a new breed. They've got can-openers on their feet." He continued in a violent tirade. The young man hastily unlocked his closet and took out his shoes and hat. As he sat on the side of the cot lacing his shoes, he glanced about and saw that daylight had made the room comparatively commonplace and uninteresting. The men, whose faces seemed stolid, serene or absent, were engaged in dressing, while a great crackle of bantering conversation arose. A few were parading in unconcerned nakedness. Here and there were men of brawn, whose skins shone clear and ruddy. They took splendid poses, standing massively like chiefs. When they had dressed in their ungainly garments there was an extraordinary change. They then showed bumps and deficiencies of all kinds. There were others who exhibited many deformities. Shoulders were slanting, humped, pulled this way and pulled that way. And notable among these latter men was the little fat man, who had refused to allow his head to be glorified. His pudgy form, builded like a pear, bustled to and fro, while he swore in fishwife fashion. It appeared that some article of his apparel had vanished. The young man attired speedily, and went to his friend the assassin. At first the latter looked dazed at the sight of the youth. This face seemed to be appealing to him through the cloud wastes of his memory. He scratched his neck and reflected. At last he grinned, a broad smile gradually spreading until his countenance was a round illumination. "Hello, Willie," he cried cheerily. "Hello," said the young man. "Are yeh ready t' fly?" "Sure." The assassin tied his shoe carefully with some twine and came ambling. When he reached the street the young man experienced no sudden relief from unholy atmospheres. He had forgotten all about them, and had been breathing naturally, and with no sensation of discomfort or distress. He was thinking of these things as he walked along the street, when he was suddenly startled by feeling the assassin's hand, trembling with excitement, clutching his arm, and when the assassin spoke, his voice went into quavers from a supreme agitation. "I'll be hully, bloomin' blowed if there wasn't a feller with a nightshirt on up there in that joint." The youth was bewildered for a moment, but presently he turned to smile indulgently at the assassin's humour. "Oh, you're a d---d liar," he merely said. Whereupon the assassin began to gesture extravagantly, and take oath by strange gods. He frantically placed himself at the mercy of remarkable fates if his tale were not true. "Yes, he did! I cross m'heart thousan' times!" he protested, and at the moment his eyes were large with amazement, his mouth wrinkled in unnatural glee. "Yessir! A nightshirt! A hully white nightshirt!" "You lie!" "No, sir! I hope ter die b'fore I kind git anudder ball if there wasn't a jay wid a hully, bloomin' white nighshirt!" His face was filled with the infinite wonder of it. "A hully white nighshirt," he continually repeated. The young man saw the dark entrance to a basement restaurant. There was a sign which read "No mystery about our hash"! and there were other age-stained and world-batered legends which told him that the place was within his means. He stopped before it and spoke to the assassin. "I guess I'll git somethin' t' eat." At this the assassin, for some reason, appeared to be quite embarrassed. He gazed at the seductive front of the eating place for a moment. Then he started slowly up the street. "Well, good-bye, Willie," he said bravely. For an instant the youth studied the departing figure. Then he called out, "Hol' on a minnet." As they came together he spoke in a certain fierce way, as if he feared that the other would think him to be charitable. "Look-a-here, if yeh wanta git some breakfas' I'll lend yeh three cents t' do it with. But say, look-a-here, you've gota git out an' hustle. I ain't goin' t' support yeh, or I'll go broke b'fore night. I ain't no millionaire." "I take me oath, Willie," said the assassin earnestly, "th' on'y thing I really needs is a ball. Me t'roat feels like a fryin'-pan. But as I can't get a ball, why, th' next bes' thing is breakfast, an' if yeh do that for me, b' Gawd, I say yeh was th' whitest lad I ever see." They spent a few moments in deteroux exchanges of phrases, in which they each protested that the other was, as the assassin had originally said, "a respecter'ble gentlm'n." And they concluded with mutual assurances that they were the souls of intelligence and virtue. Then they went into the restaurant. There was a long counter, dimly lighted from hidden sources. Two or three men in soiled white aprons rushed here and there. The youth bought a bowl of coffee for two cents and a roll for one cent. The assassin purchased the same. the bowls were webbed with brown seams, and the tin spoons wore an air of having emerged from the first pyramid. Upon them were black moss-like encrustations of age, and they were bent and scarred from the attacks of long-forgotten teeth. But over their repast the wanderers waxed warm and mellow. The assassin grew affable as the hot mixture went soothingly down his parched throat, and the young man felt courage flow in his veins. Memories began to throng in on the assassin, and he brought forth long tales, intricate, incoherent, delivered with a chattering swiftness as from an old woman. "--great job out'n Orange. Boss keep yeh hustlin' though all time. I was there three days, and then I went an' ask 'im t' lend me a dollar. 'G-g-go ter the devil,' he ses, an' I lose me job. "South no good. Damn niggers work for twenty-five an' thirty cents a day. Run white man out. Good grub though. Easy livin'. "Yas; useter work little in Toledo, raftin' logs. Make two or three dollars er day in the spring. Lived high. Cold as ice though in the winter. "I was raised in northern N'York. O-o-oh, yeh jest oughto live there. No beer ner whisky though, way off in the woods. But all th' good hot grub yeh can eat. B' Gawd, I hung around there long as I could till th' ol' man fired me. 'Git t' hell outa here, yeh wuthless skunk, git t' hell outa here, an' go die,' he ses. 'You're a hell of a father,' I ses, 'you are,' an' I quit him." As they were passing from the dim eating place, they encountered an old man who was trying to steal forth with a tiny package of food, but a tall man with an indomitable moustache stood dragon fashion, barring the way of escape. They heard the old man raise a plaintive protest. "Ah, you always want to know what I take out, and you never see that I usually bring a package in here from my place of business." As the wanderers trudged slowly along Park Row, the assassin began to expand and grow blithe. "B' Gawd, we've been livin' like kings," he said, smacking appreciative lips. "Look out, or we'll have t' pay fer it t'night," said the youth with gloomy warning. But the assassin refused to turn his gazed toward the future. He went with a limping step, into which he injected a suggestion of lamblike gambols. His mouth was wreathed in a red grin. In the City Hall Park the two wanderers sat down in the little circle of benches sanctified by traditions of their class. They huddled in their old garments, slumbrously conscious of the march of the hours which for them had no meaning. The people of the street hurrying hither and thither made a blend of black figures changing yet frieze-like. They walked in their good clothes as upon important missions, giving no gaze to the two wanderers seated upon the benches. They expressed to the young man his infinite distance from all that he valued. Social position, comfort, the pleasures of living, were unconquerable kingdoms. He felt a sudden awe. And in the background a multitude of buildings, of pitiless hues and sternly high, were to him embelamatic of a nation forcing its regal head into the clouds, throwing no downward glances; in the sublimity of its aspirations ignoring the wretches who may flounder at its feet. The roar of the city in his ear was to him the confusion of strange tongues, babbling heedlessly; it was the clink of coin, the voice of the city's hopes which were to him no hopes. He confessed himself an outcast, and his eyes from nder the lowered rim of his hat began to glance guiltily, wearing the criminal expression that comes with certain convictions. Coda "Well," said the friend, "did you discover his point of view?" "I don't know that I did," replied the young man; "but at any rate I think mine own has undergone a considerable alteration."

136: Alfred Stieglitz: "The Terminal" and "Winter, Fifth Avenue"