This was my first experience with Sherwood Anderson, though I'm sure it won't be the last. Apparently he made quite an impression on both Faulkner and Hemingway, but I think his net was cast much wider than that. I can see where McCullers, O'Connor and Stegner have emulated him as well. It's a spare little book. The sentences are stripped down, but they say so much. I had to try and pace myself with this one. I kept reminding myself to slow down. I didn't want to miss anything important. It was all important.
It's a collection of short stories, but the characters' lives and minds overlap and intertwine. George Willard, the newspaper journalist, plays a central role in the book. He's the eyes and ears of the town, but people tend to behave very peculiarly in his presence. George is curious about his neighbors and senses that they all have important stories to tell. He makes himself available as a listener, which is both a blessing and a burden. In order to deal with and process all of the information he receives, George would have to be a priest, therapist, lover, murderer and poet all wrapped up into one person. It's no wonder that he ultimately plans to escape his small town and make a fresh start.
The most moving element of the book was the passion of the storytellers. There was a lifetime's worth of meaning and soul searching in each tale, and often the tellers formed poignant and profound conclusions about life. Yet when it came time to reveal these conclusions, the storytellers invariably stumbled, stammered, clammed up or chickened out. Why is it that when something truly makes our heart sing, we ache to shout it to the world, yet bite our tongues in the end? Is it too frightening or shameful to admit what we feel in our hearts to be true? What do you think? Read the book and let me know.
