Thomas Wolfe - Thomas Wolfe - Of Time and the River, You Can't Go Home Again & Look Homeward, Angel

“I’ll vow, Mr. Gant,” Eliza was vexed. “Why on earth don’t you watch what you’re doing? If you didn’t eat so fast you wouldn’t always get choked.”

The children, staring, but relieved, settled slowly back in their places.

He had a Dutch love of abundance: again and again he described the great stored barns, the groaning plenty of the Pennsylvanians.

On his journey to California, he had been charmed in New Orleans by the cheapness and profusion of tropical fruits: a peddler offered him a great bunch of bananas for twenty-five cents, and Gant had taken them at once, wondering desperately later, as they moved across the continent, why, and what he was going to do with them.

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This journey to California was Gant’s last great voyage. He made it two years after Eliza’s return from St. Louis, when he was fifty-six years old. In the great frame was already stirring the chemistry of pain and death. Unspoken and undefined there was in him the knowledge that he was at length caught in the trap of life and fixity, that he was being borne under in this struggle against the terrible will that wanted to own the earth more than to explore it. This was the final flare of the old hunger that had once darkened in the small gray eyes, leading a boy into new lands and toward the soft stone smile of an angel.

And he returned from nine thousand miles of wandering, to the bleak bare prison of the hills on a gray day late in winter.

In the more than eight thousand days and nights of this life with Eliza, how often had he been wakefully, soberly and peripatetically conscious of the world outside him between the hours of one and five A.M.? Wholly, for not more than nineteen nights — one for the birth of Leslie, Eliza’s first daughter; one for her death twenty-six months later, cholera infantis; one for the death of Major Tom Pentland, Eliza’s father, in May, 1902; one for the birth of Luke; one, on the train westbound to Saint Louis, en route to Grover’s death; one for the death in the Playhouse (1893) of Uncle Thaddeus Evans, an aged and devoted negro; one, with Eliza, in the month of March, 1897, as deathwatch to the corpse of old Major Isaacs; three at the end of the month of July, 1897, when it was thought that Eliza, withered to a white sheeting of skin upon a bone frame, must die of typhoid; again in early April, 1903, for Luke, typhoid death near; one for the death of Greeley Pentland, aged twenty-six, congenial scrofulous tubercular, violinist, Pentlandian punster, petty check-forger, and six weeks’ jailbird; three nights, from the eleventh to the fourteenth of January, 1905, by the rheumatic crucifixion of his right side, participant in his own grief, accuser of himself and his God; once in February, 1896, as death-watch to the remains of Sandy Duncan, aged eleven; once in September, 1895, penitentially alert and shamefast in the City “calaboose”; in a room of the Keeley Institute at Piedmont, North Carolina, June 7, 1896; on March 17, 1906, between Knoxville, Tennessee, and Altamont, at the conclusion of a seven weeks’ journey to California.

How looked the home-earth then to Gant the Far–Wanderer? Light crept grayly, melting on the rocky river, the engine smoke streaked out on dawn like a cold breath, the hills were big, but nearer, nearer than he thought. And Altamont lay gray and withered in the hills, a bleak mean wintry dot. He stepped carefully down in squalid Toytown, noting that everything was low, near, and shrunken as he made his Gulliverian entry. He had a roof-and-gulley high conviction; with careful tucked-in elbows he weighted down the heated Toytown street-car, staring painfully at the dirty pasteboard pebbledash of the Pisgah Hotel, the brick and board cheap warehouses of Depot Street, the rusty clapboard flimsiness of the Florence (Railway Men’s) Hotel, quaking with beef-fed harlotry.

So small, so small, so small, he thought. I never believed it. Even the hills here. I’ll soon be sixty.

His sallow face, thin-flanked, was hang-dog and afraid. He stared wistful-sullenly down at the rattan seat as the car screeched round into the switch at the cut and stopped; the motorman, smoke-throated, slid the door back and entered with his handle. He closed the door and sat down yawning.

“Where you been, Mr. Gant?”

“California,” said Gant.

“Thought I hadn’t seen you,” said the motorman.

There was a warm electric smell and one of hot burnt steel.

But two months dead! But two months dead! Ah, Lord! So it’s come to this. Merciful God, this fearful, awful, and damnable climate. Death, death! Is it too late? A land of life, a flower land. How clear the green clear sea was. And all the fishes swimming there. Santa Catalina. Those in the East should always go West. How came I here? Down, down — always down, did I know where? Baltimore, Sydney — In God’s name, why? The little boat glass-bottomed, so you could look down. She lifted up her skirts as she stepped down. Where now? A pair of pippins.

“Jim Bowles died while you were gone, I reckon,” said the motorman.

“What!” howled Gant. “Merciful God!” he clucked mournfully downward. “What did he die of?” he asked.

“Pneumonia,” said the motorman. “He was dead four days after he was took down.”

“Why, he was a big healthy man in the prime of life,” said Gant. “I was talking to him the day before I went away,” he lied, convincing himself permanently that this was true. “He looked as if he had never known a day’s sickness in his life.”

“He went home one Friday night with a chill,” said the motorman, “and the next Tuesday he was gone.”

There was a crescent humming on the rails. With his thick glove finger he pushed away a clearing in the window-coated ice scurf and looked smokily out on the raw red cut-bank. The other car appeared abruptly at the end of the cut and curved with a skreeking jerk into the switch.

“No, sir,” said the motorman, sliding back the door, “you never know who’ll go next. Here today and gone tomorrow. Hit gits the big ‘uns first sometimes.”

He closed the door behind him and jerkily opened three notches of juice. The car ground briskly off like a wound toy.

In the prime of life, thought Gant. Myself like that some day. No, for others. Mother almost eighty-six. Eats like a horse, Augusta wrote. Must send her twenty dollars. Now in the cold clay, frozen. Keep till Spring. Rain, rot, rain. Who got the job? Brock or Saul Gudger? Bread out of my mouth. Do me to death — the stranger. Georgia marble, sandstone base, forty dollars.

“A gracious friend from us is gone,

A voice we loved is fled,

But faith and memory lead us on:

He lives; he is not dead.”

Four cents a letter. Little enough, God knows, for the work you do. My letters the best. Could have been a writer. Like to draw too. And all of mine! I would have heard if anything — he would have told me. I’ll never go that way. All right above the waist. If anything happens it will be down below. Eaten away. Whisky holes through all your guts. Pictures in Cardiac’s office of man with cancer. But several doctors have to agree on it. Criminal offense if they don’t. But, if worst comes to worst — all that’s outside. Get it before it gets up in you. Still live. Old man Haight had a flap in his belly. Ladled it out in a cup. McGuire — damned butcher. But he can do anything. Cut off a piece here, sew it on there. Made the Hominy man a nose with a piece of shinbone. Couldn’t tell it. Ought to be possible. Cut all the strings, tie them up again. While you wait. Sort of job for McGuire — rough and ready. They’ll do it some day. After I’m gone. Things standing thus, unknown — but kill you maybe. Bull’s too big. Soon now the Spring. You’d die. Not big enough. All bloody in her brain. Full filling fountains of bull-milk. Jupiter and what’s-her-name.