Abstract
Though lives rarely have the conformity of entire plays, there are possible subdivisions corresponding to the acts of a play. A cycle or constellation of events separates itself from the general clutter--and since it can be classified, we can note its subsidence. The curtain descends upon a partial close, a converging or resolution of some factors. As I said farewell at the station, expressing my hopes of Florence's return in words which formally concealed the permanence of our adieu, I felt that the fundamental concerns of several years had been rounded off and finished. It was because of Florence that I had gone into this section of the country and attempted to reconstruct a new manner of living--so Florence had been primarily the force holding me here. She made me live as though there was a score I had to settle and as though living was a revenge. My fear of her had been the beacon for me to steer by. But now many conditions which I had schooled myself to cope with, were reversed. I had been pushing against a great weight--and with this weight gone, I fell forward. While her train hurried down the valley, I experienced such gloom as terrified me. For even a life of bitter ness was desirable compared with a life without purpose. "You have no reason," I whispered to myself, "for doing any single thing."
Then with clownishness, I marched precisely, turning the words into a military march, making the tune to fit at random, and centering my thoughts upon this arbitrarily invented conduct.1
Get full access to this article
View all access options for this article.
