MY MOST INSPIRING MOMENT
A popular, warmhearted author recalls
a momentous boyhood experience: the day he
discovered something worth shouting about
course it is always pleasant for a boy
to be nicely integrated, because if he
isn't, why should any girl bother to
look at him twice instead of once, or
speak to him, or want to be near him,
or like him? Or why should anybody,
or God, or fate, or luck? But it wasn't
handsomeness, either.
Was it swiftness? Well, of course
being able to move swiftly, walking,
running, or riding a bicycle was al
ways exhilarating and frequently
also useful; and being able to think
swiftly and make a decision swiftly
and to behave decently swiftly was al
ways a good thing, but it wasn't swift
ness, either.
Well, just what was he trying for,
then?
He didn't know. It was more, that's
all. It had to do with everything, but
he didn't know how.
But after school every day, watch
ing the people in the streets, he
was trying to find out, and he was try
ing at school every day, and at church
every Sunday, and every night before
going to sleep, but he wasn't making
it, although once or twice during the
instant just before he fell asleep he al
most made it, he almost had it, and
then it was too late again, he was fast
asleep. He had almost had it but he
had permitted himself to slip away into
the luxury of sleep, so that when he
woke up in the morning the world was
still cold, crazy, and crooked. And it
didn't seem worth the bother to get
out of bed. -
On Aug. 31, 1921, he was 13 full
years of age and still nowhere.
The whole natural world was breath
ing deeply at the height of another
summer: the grapes on the vines were
ripe and ready, the figs on the trees
were fat and black, the branches of
the peach trees were barely able to
carry the weight of their fruit, laugh
ing water raced around rocks in the
Kings and San Joaquin Rivers and
through thousands of miles of irriga
tion ditches. Dragonflies hovered over
the cool waters, dazzling in the light
and the reflected light. At sundown
doves -cooed memory and love, and
killdees called quick sharp lonely rep-'
rimands to the sun for sneaking away
again with the light. Unseen frogs and
crickets tuned up their instruments,
chose their music, and then performed
a perfectly constructed symphony with
out conductor or effort All reality
felt its truth and immortality, and
only a- small boy, a member of the
ridiculous human race, stood and lis
tened in the empty lot next to his house
and didn't understand.
Thirteen years of age right down
to the last minute, and still a fool.
The world meant something, to be
something alive meant something, but
to be a man alive, to belong to that
incredible family, the human race,
meant mori than something, it meant
everything, only nobody seemed to
know what, and nobody seemed to care,
either.
Except him. He knew there was
everything to know, and he knew that
he knew nothing. He knew he cared,
too, and it was damnably tiring.
Before he knew it, September was
gone, and then October. And then came
November and December and January,
and the New Year, and the only dif
ference was that now the world was
cold, frozen stiff, and stupid.
He was reading all the time: a left
over copy of the paper he sold every
night, The Fresno Evening Herald:
a leftover copy of the magazine he sold
every Thursday, The Saturday Eve
ning Post: Boys' World and What to
Do, Sunday School papers: school
books, and books from the public li
brary. And then one day in February it
.happened, like zowie, but inside,
and in silence. He was at Tech High,
because there was a typing course at
that school and he wanted to be a
writer. There was also a small library
where he went whenever he had a
study period, only instead of studying
he wandered around looking for a book
that might let him know what he was
looking for. 1
One afternoon he took a book of
short stories from a shelf and sat down
and didn't even bother to open the
book. What good was it? It was just
another book, just some more stuff
about rich people, fancy stuff, more
lies.
At last, though, he opened the book
to the title page to see who the writer
was. It was somebody named Guy de
Maupassant.
Well, he'd try him, too. He didn't
read the first story, he didn't read the
second one, he just opened the book,
turned few pages until he came to
the beginning of a story, and began to
read the story, which happened to have
the name, in English, of The Sell.
He read the story straight through,
and then sat a moment just thinking,
because now he knew, the reading of
the story had finally made him know
what it was all about, and he wanted
to think about this a moment
A bell rang, and school was over.
Everybody in the library began to race
around and out, but he still sat.
What they did was kill the beggar
who was called The Bell, and
they were all honorable, decent re
spected members of the human race
in France. They refused him employ
ment, money, food, understanding, and
their children called him names, threw
stones at him, chased him. When he
tried to steal a chicken, he was brutal
ly beaten by a farmer and left lying
in a ditch. The village police dragged
him to jail the following morning,
locked him up, and went away. He
waited, saying nothing, thinking noth
ing, but nobody came. He heard voices
and sounds all day, and then it was
night but still no one came.
The next morning when the police
went into his cell, they found him dead.
Nobody knew when he had died, or
how, and it didn't matter. He was just
dead. Nobody knew how he had lived,
either. Nobody, that is, except a man
named Guy de Maupassant.
And now he knew what Guy de
Maupassant had known. Guy de Mau
passant was dead, but he wasn't and
like Guy de Maupassant he was a
writer. At last he knew what it was all
about: without pity it doesn't mean
anything.
The revelation was so enormous he
was speechless. Even after he had left
the library and had walked to The
Herald and had picked up the news
papers he was to sell, he continued to
be speechless.
He couldn't even whisper, let alone
holler a headline. He was still living
out the awful responsibility of being a
man of pity, intelligence, honor, love,
and perhaps genius, whatever that is,
but finally he had it all straight, so
then he hollered. The people in the
street stopped and turned and looked
and listened, because even though he
was only hollering the headline, he
seemed to be trying to tell them some
thing they ought to know.
Family Weekly. March 14. mi
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