Collected Stories: Winesburg, Ohio, The Triumph of the Egg, Horses and Men, Death in the Woods, Uncollected Stories (Library of America, Book 235)

Collected Stories: Winesburg, Ohio, The Triumph of the Egg, Horses and Men, Death in the Woods, Uncollected Stories (Library of America, Book 235)

Sherwood Anderson, Charles Baxter

Language: English

Pages: 693

ISBN: 2:00297943

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


In the winter of 1912, Sherwood Anderson (1876--1941) abruptly left his office and spent three days wandering through the Ohio countryside, a victim of "nervous exhaustion." Over the next few years, abandoning his family and his business, he resolved to become a writer. Novels and poetry followed, but it was with the story collection Winesburg, Ohio that he found his ideal form, remaking the American short story for the modern era. Hart Crane, one of the first to recognize Anderson's genius, quickly hailed his accomplishment: "America should read this book on her knees." Here--for the first time in a single volume--are all the collections Anderson published during his lifetime: Winesburg, Ohio (1919), The Triumph of the Egg (1921), Horses and Men (1923), and Death in the Woods (1933), along with a generous selection of stories left uncollected or unpublished at his death. Exploring the hidden recesses of small town life, these haunting, understated, often sexually frank stories pivot on seemingly quiet moments when lives change, futures are recast, and pasts come to reckon. They transformed the tone of American storytelling, inspiring writers like Hemingway, Faulkner, and Mailer, and defining a tradition of midwestern fiction that includes Charles Baxter, editor of this volume.

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dressed with a certain air, walked with a certain air. She was a proud, upstanding, triumphant thing. She did not need a man. “God, Rosalind, don’t do it, don’t do it,” she muttered over and over. How much she had wanted Rosalind to keep clear and clean! Once she also had been a young woman, proud, upstanding. Could anyone think she had ever wanted to become Ma Wescott, fat, heavy and old? All through her married life she had stayed in her own house, in the kitchen of her own house, but in her

grass like a kitten compelled to walk in water. She thought of May Edgley’s adventure in the wood with Jerome Hadley. How stupid her father had been, how stupid everyone in the town of Bidwell! “It must be so with men and women everywhere,” she thought vaguely. “They go on thinking they know what’s happening, and they know nothing.” She thought of May Edgley, small and a woman, alone in the forest with a man—a dark determined man, intent upon murder. The man held in his hand a little package

the commander of men, from the strong man, the powerful one who swept all before him, and had given her illicit but powerfully fascinating love to a railroad mail clerk. Maud had seen Jerome Hadley. When the Wellivers had first come to Bidwell she, with her aunt and father, had been driven about town with a real-estate man and his wife. They were looking for a house in which to live and as they drove about the real-estate man’s wife, who sat on the back seat of a surrey with Maud and her aunt,

not voluntarily have such thoughts—suppose either the man or woman might, quite accidentally, roll over on the baby and crush it, smother it, rather. Tom’s mind slipped a little out of his grasp. He was trying to hold on to something—what was it? Was it his own life? That was an odd thought. Now his father had stopped praying and downstairs the family were eating the evening meal. There was silence in the house. People, even dirty half-ill children, grew silent when they ate. That was a good

to his hotel for the night? The notion hadn’t come to him until too late. Youth, rather wild and undisciplined, running wild, eh? I wonder why I never did it, never wanted to do it. If he had been a bit wilder, more reckless—that night, that time when he and Lillian . . . “It’s all right being reckless with yourself, but when some one else is involved, a young girl in a small town, you yourself lighting out . . . He remembered sharply that on the night, long before, as he sat with Lillian on

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