Any other than he would have given up the game long ago, but he knew he had talent—he would n't go quite so far as to say genius, but great talent. It was no use their turning him down all the time. He was certain they never read the stuff.
He was certain, too, there was some trick, some knack2 he had n't discovered. Just some little trick. These men of national, international fame—he could see from their faces they had no especial brains, any more than he had.
But just some little trick he could n't get.
He had taken courses in writing, gone to schools of journalism3, and here were all his manuscripts with neat rejection4 slips; here was what he thought the great American novel battered5 and dog-eared, a study of the temptations of a girl in the great city; and here was his crook6 drama, that some filthy7 reader had marked with the rim8 of a coffee cup. It was enough to make a man quit.
But he would n't quit. He 'd be as big as the biggest of them. He, too, would have his pictures in the papers, not gaunt and bitter as most of them seemed, but pleasant, dignified9, literary. And his picture would look like an author's, with its well-marked features, its masculine little mustache, its intellectual glasses. And he, too, would be interviewed. And he, too, would sign contracts involving great sums of money. And there would be gossip about him, too, in the papers, where in Florida he was spending the winter vacation, what he was doing in summer.
He would n't quit. Had n't they all said at school and college he was cut out to be a writer? Had n't he gone to Europe for six months? And, what was more, had n't he the money his father, the hardware man, had left him? Had n't he his home? He could stick it out.
His home! His wife! If instead of these few trees, this lawn, the outlook of the quiet sound, if instead of here he lived somewhere in the welter of affairs, wouldn't he be better? Somewhere things changed, where one did not have to go three quarters of an hour in a train to the theater. Down town in New York. Only trees and grass and water and sky here. Nothing to write about.
And his wife, Berenice—oh, she was a sweet girl, a nice girl, but—hadn't he perhaps made a mistake? She was so good and wholesome10! Too much? Would n't it have been better to be married to—to an actress, or a sculptress, or—or something. Some one who could feel things; who would n't smile, and be nice. Berenice was all right, but—
And his mother. She was a nice, darling person, but—she did n't just understand. She was just a mother, like anybody's mother: If she could feel the great complex things! But she was just loving, and everything he did was right.
Berenice, and his mother ... the trees, the water ... essential barrenness of life ... nothing to write about ... so unfair.
点击收听单词发音
1 awaken | |
vi.醒,觉醒;vt.唤醒,使觉醒,唤起,激起 | |
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2 knack | |
n.诀窍,做事情的灵巧的,便利的方法 | |
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3 journalism | |
n.新闻工作,报业 | |
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4 rejection | |
n.拒绝,被拒,抛弃,被弃 | |
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5 battered | |
adj.磨损的;v.连续猛击;磨损 | |
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6 crook | |
v.使弯曲;n.小偷,骗子,贼;弯曲(处) | |
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7 filthy | |
adj.卑劣的;恶劣的,肮脏的 | |
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8 rim | |
n.(圆物的)边,轮缘;边界 | |
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9 dignified | |
a.可敬的,高贵的 | |
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10 wholesome | |
adj.适合;卫生的;有益健康的;显示身心健康的 | |
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