You Can't Go Home Again

by Thomas Wolfe

  "There are better ways to write a book, but this, God help me, is mine, and you'll have to learn to put up with it."

  When Rodney's Magazine came out with the story, George fully expected convulsions of the earth, falling meteors, suspension of traffic in the streets, and a general strike. But nothing happened. A few of his friends mentioned it, but that was all. For several days he felt let down, but then his common sense reassured him that people couldn't really tell much about a new author from a short piece in a magazine. The book would show them who he was and what he could do. It would be different then. He could afford to wait a little longer for the fame which he was certain would soon be his.

  It was not until later, after the first excitement had worn off and George had become accustomed to the novelty of being an author whose book was actually going to be published, that he began to learn a little about the unknown world of publishing and the people who inhabit it--and not till then did he begin to understand and appreciate the teal quality of Fox Edwards. And it was through Otto Hauser--so much like Fox in his essential integrity, so sharply contrasted to him in other respects--that George got his first real insight into the character of his editor.

  Hausa Was a reader at Rodney's, and probably the best publisher's reader in America. He might have been a publisher's editor--a rare and good one--had he been driven forward by ambition, enthusiasm, daring, tenacious resolution, and that eagerness to seek and find the best which a great editor must have. But Hauser was content to spend his days reading ridiculous manuscripts written by ridiculous people on all sorts of ridiculous subjects "The Breast Stroke," "Rock Gardens for Everybody," "The Life and Times of Lydia Pinkham," "The New Age of Plenty"--and once in a while something that had the fire of passion, the spark of genius, the glow of truth.

  Otto Hauser lived in a tiny apartment near First Avenue, and he invited George to drop in one evening. George went, and they spent the evening talking. After that he returned again and again because he liked Otto, and also because he was puzzled by the contradictions of his qualities, especially by something aloof, impersonal, and withdrawing in his nature which seemed so out of place beside the clear and positive elements in his character.

  Otto did all the housekeeping himself. He had tried having cleaning women in from time to time, but eventually he had dispensed entirely with their services. 'They were not clean and tidy enough to suit him, and their casual and haphazard disarrangements of objects that had been placed exactly where he wanted them annoyed his order-loving soul. He hated clutter. He had only a few books--a shelf or two--most of them the latest publications of the house of Rodney, and a few volumes sent him by other publishers. Usually he gave his books away as soon as he finished reading them because he hated clutter, and books made clutter. Sometimes he wondered if he didn't hate books, too. Certainly he didn't like to have many of them around: the sight of them irritated him.

  George found him a curious enigma. Otto Hauser was possessed of remarkable gifts, yet he was almost wholly lacking in those qualities which cause a man to "get on" in the world. In fact, he didn't want to "get on". He had a horror of "getting on", of going any further than he bad already gone. He wanted to be a publisher's reader, and nothing more. At James Rodney & Co. he did the work they put into his hands. He did punctiliously what he was required to do. He gave his word, when he was asked to give it, with the complete integrity of his quiet soul, the unerring rightness of his judgment, the utter finality of his Germanic spirit. But beyond that he would not go.

  When one of the editors at Rodney's, of whom there were several besides Foxhall Edwards, asked Hauser for his opinion, the ensuing conversation would go something like this:

  "You have read the manuscript?"

  "Yes," said Hauser, "I have read it."

  "What did you think of it?"

  "I thought it was without merit."

  "Then you do not recommend its publication?"

  "No, I do not think it is worth publishing."

  Or:

  "Did you read that manuscript?"

  "Yes," Hauser would say. "I read it."

  "Well, what did you think of it? (Confound it, can't the fellow say what he thinks without having to be asked all the timer)"

  "I think it is a work of genius."

  Incredulously: "You do!"

  "I do, yes. To my mind there is no question about it."

  "But look here, Hauser--" excitedly--"if what you say is true, this boy--the fellow who wrote it--why, he's just a kid--no one ever heard of him before--comes from somewhere out West--Nebraska, Iowa, one of those places--never been anywhere, apparently--if what you say is true, we've made a discovery!"

  "I suppose you have. Yes. The book is a work of genius."

  "But--(Damn it all, what's wrong with the man anyway? Here he makes a discovery like this--an astounding statement of this sort--and shows no more enthusiasm than if he were discussing a cabbage head!)--but, see here, then! You--you mean there's something wrong with it?"

  "No, I don't think there's anything wrong with it. I think it is a magnificent piece of writing."

  "But--(Good Lord, the fellow is a queer fish!)--but you mean to say that--that perhaps it's not suitable for publication in its present form?"

  "No. I think it's eminently publishable."

  "But it's overwritten, isn't it?"

  "It is overwritten. Yes."

  "I thought so, too," said the editor shrewdly. "Of course, the fellow shows he knows very little about writing. He doesn't know how he does it, he repeats himself continually, he is childish and exuberant and extravagant, and he does ten times too much of everything.. We have a hundred other writers who know more about writing than he does."

  "I suppose we have, yes," Hauser agreed. "Nevertheless, he is a man of genius, and they are not. His, book is a work of genius, and theirs are not."

  "Then you think we ought to publish him?"

  "I think so, yes."

  "But--(Ah, here's the catch, maybe--the thing he's holding back on!)--but you think this is all he has to say?--that he's written himself out in this one book?--that he'll never be able to write another?"

  "No. I think nothing of the sort. I can't say, of course. They may kill him, as they often do----"

  "(God, what a gloomy Gus the fellow is!)"

  "--but on the basis of this book, I should say there's no danger of his running dry. He should have fifty books in him."

  "But--(Good Lord! What is the catch?)--but then you mean you don't think it's time for such a book as this in America yet?"

  "No, I don't mean that. I think it is time."

  "Why?"

  "Because it has happened. Iris always time when it happens."

  "But some of our best critics say it's not time."

  "I know they do. However, they are wrong. It is simply not their time, that's all."

  "How do you mean?"

  "I mean, their time is critic's time. The book is creator's time. The two times are not the same."

  "You think, then, that the critics are behind the time?"

  "They are behind creator's time, yes."

  "Then they may not see this book as the work of genius which you say it is. Do you think they will?"

  "I can't say. Perhaps not. However, it doesn't matter."

  "Doesn't matter! Why, what do you mean?"

  "I mean that the thing is good, and cannot be destroyed. Therefore it doesn't matter what anyone says."

  "Then--Good Lord, Hauser!--if what you say is true, we've made a great discovery!"

  "I think you have. Yes."

  "But--but--is that all you have to say?"

  "I think so, yes. What else is there to say?"

  Baffled: "Nothing--only, I should think you would be excited about it!" Then, completely defeated and resigned: "Oh, all right! All right, Hauser! Thanks very much!"

  The people at Rodney's couldn't understand it. They didn't know what to make of it. Finally, they had given up trying, all except Fox
Edwards--and Fox would never give up trying to understand anything. Fox still came by Hauser's office--his little cell--and looked in on him. Fox's old grey hat would be pushed back on his head, for he never took it off when he worked, and there would be a look of troubled wonder in his sea-pale eyes as he bent over and stooped and craned and stared at Hauser, as if he were regarding for the first time some fantastic monster from the marine jungles of the ocean. Then he would turn and walk away, hands hanging to his coat lapels, and in his eyes there would be a look of utter astonishment.

  Fox couldn't understand it yet. As for Hauser himself, he had no answers, nothing to tell them.

  It was not until George Webber had become well acquainted with both men that be began to penetrate the mystery. Foxhall Edwards and Otto Hauser--to know them both, to see them working in the same office, each in his own way, was to understand them both as perhaps neither could have been understood completely by himself. Each man, by being what he was, revealed to George the secret springs of character which had made the two of them so much alike--and so utterly different.

  There may have been a time when an intense and steady flame had been alive in the quiet depths of Otto Hauser's spirit. But that was before he knew what it was like to be a great editor. Now he had seen it for himself, and he wanted none of it. For ten years he had watched Fox Edwards, and he well knew what was needed: the pure flame living in the midst of darkness; the constant, quiet, and relentless effort of the will to accomplish what the pure flame burned for, what the spirit knew; the unspoken agony of that constant effort as it fought to win through to its clear purpose and somehow to subdue the world's blind and brutal force of ignorance, hostility, prejudice, and intolerance which were opposed to it--the fools of age, the fools of prudery, the fools of genteelness, fogyism, and nice-Nellyism, the fools of bigotry, Philistinism, jealousy, and envy, and, worst of all, the utter, sheer damn fools of nature!

  Oh, to burn so, so to be consumed, exhausted, spent by the passion of this constant flame! And for what? For what? And why? Because some obscure kid from Tennessee, some tenant farmer's son from Georgia, or some country doctor's boy in North Dakota--untitled, unpedigreed, unhallowed by fools' standards--had been touched with genius, and so had striven to give a tongue to the high passion of his loneliness, to wrest from his locked spirit his soul's language and a portion of the tongue of his unuttered brothers, to find a channel in the blind immensity of this harsh land for the pent tides of his creation, and to make, perhaps, in this howling wilderness of life some carving and some dwelling of his own--all this before the world's fool-bigotry, fool-ignorance, fool-cowardice, fool-faddism, fool-mockery, fool-stylism, and fool-hatred for anyone who was not corrupted, beaten, and a fool had either quenched the hot, burning passion with ridicule, contempt, denial, and oblivion, or else corrupted the strong will with the pollutions of fool-success. It was for this that such as Fox must burn and suffer--to keep that flame' of agony alive in the spirit of some inspired and stricken boy until the world of fools had taken it into their custody, and betrayed it!

  Otto Hauser had seen it all.

  And in the end what was the reward for such a one as Fox? To achieve the lonely and unhoped-for victories one by one, and to see the very fools who had denied them acclaim them as their own. To lapse again to search, to silence, and to waiting while fools greedily pocketed as their own the coin of one man's spirit, proudly hailed as their discovery the treasure of another's exploration, loudly celebrated their own vision as they took unto themselves the fulfilment of another's prophecy. Ah, the heart must break at last--the heart of Fox, as well as the heart of genius, the lost boy; the frail, small heart of man must falter, stop at last from beating; but the heart of folly would beat on for ever.

  So Otto Hauser would have none of it. He would grow hot over nothing. He would try to see the truth for himself, and let it go at that.

  This was Otto Hauser as George came to know him. In the confidence of friendship Otto held up a mirror to his own soul, affording a clear, unposed reflection of his quiet, unassuming, and baffling integrity; but in the same mirror he also revealed, without quite being aware of it, the stronger and more shining image of Fox Edwards.

  George knew how fortunate he was to have as his editor a man like Fox. And as time went on, and his respect and admiration for the older man warmed to deep affection, he realized that Fox had become for him much more than editor and friend. Little by little it seemed to George that he had found in Fox the father he had lost and had long been looking for. And so it was that Fox became a second father to him--the father of his spirit.

  * * *

  3. The Microscopic Gentleman from Japan

  In the old house where George lived that year Mr. Katamoto occupied the ground floor just below him, and in a little while they got to know each other very well. It might be said that their friendship began in mystification and went on to a state of security and staunch understanding.

  Not that Mr. Katamoto ever forgave George when he erred. He was always instantly ready to inform him that he had taken a false step again (the word is used advisedly), but he was so infinitely patient, so unflaggingly hopeful of George's improvement, so unfailingly good-natured and courteous, that no one could possibly have been angry or failed to try to mend his ways. What saved the situation was Katamoto's gleeful, childlike sense of humour. He was one of those microscopic gentlemen from Japan, scarcely five feet tall, thin and very wiry in his build, and George's barrel chest, broad shoulders, long, dangling arms, and large feet seemed to inspire his comic risibilities from the beginning. The first time they met, as they were just passing each other in the hall, Katamoto began to giggle when he saw George coming; and as they came abreast, the little man flashed a great expanse of gleaming teeth, wagged a finger roguishly, and said:

  "Tramp-ling! Tramp-ling!"

  For several days, whenever they passed each other in the hall, this same performance was repeated. George thought the words were very mysterious, and at first could not fathom their recondite meaning or understand why the sound of them was enough to set Katamoto off in a paroxysm of mirth. And yet when he would utter them and George would look at him in a surprised, inquiring kind of way, Katamoto would bend double with convulsive laughter and would stamp at the floor like a child with a tiny foot, shrieking hysterically! "Yis--yis--yis! You are tramp-ling!"--after which he would flee away.

  George inferred that these mysterious references to "tramp-ling" which always set Katamoto off in such a fit of laughter had something to do with the bigness of his feet, for Katamoto would look at them quickly and slyly as he passed, and then giggle. However, a fuller explanation was soon provided. Katamoto came upstairs one afternoon and knocked at George's door. When it was opened, he giggled and flashed his teeth and looked somewhat embarrassed.. After a moment, with evident hesitancy, he grinned painfully and said:

  "If you ple-e-eze, sir! Will you--have some tea--with me--yis?" He spoke the words very slowly, with a deliberate formality, after which he flashed a quick, eager, and ingratiating smile.

  George told him he would be glad to, and got his coat and started downstairs with him. Katamoto padded swiftly on ahead, his little feet shod in felt slippers that made no sound. Half-way down the stairs, as if the noise of George's heavy tread had touched his funny-bone again, Katamoto stopped quickly, turned and pointed at George's feet, and giggled coyly: "Tramp-ling! You are trampling!" Then he turned and fairly fled away down the stairs and down the hall, shrieking like a gleeful child. He waited at the door to usher his guest in, introduced him to the slender, agile little Japanese girl who seemed to stay there all the time, and finally brought George back into his studio and served him tea.

  It was an amazing place. Katamoto bad redecorated the fine old rooms and fitted them up according to the whims of his curious taste. The big back room was very crowded, intricate, and partitioned off into several small compartments with beautiful Japanese screens. He had also constructed a flight o
f stairs and a balcony that extended around three sides of the room, and on this balcony George could see a couch. The room was crowded with tiny chairs and tables, and there was an opulent-looking sofa and cushions. There were a great many small carved objects and bric-à-brac, and a strong smell of incense.

  The centre of the room, however, had been left entirely bare save for a big strip of spattered canvas and an enormous plaster figure. George gathered that he did a thriving business turning out sculptures for expensive speak-easies, or immense fifteen-foot statues of native politicians which were to decorate public squares in little towns, or in the state capitals of Arkansas, Nebraska, Iowa, and Wyoming. Where and how he had learned this curious profession George never found out, but he had mastered it with true Japanese fidelity, and so well that his products were apparently in greater demand than those of American sculptors. In spite of his small size and fragile build, the man was a dynamo of energy and could perform the labours of a Titan. God knows how he did it--where he found the strength.

  George asked a question about the big plaster cast in the centre of the room, and Katamoto took him over and showed it to him, remarking as he pointed to the creature's huge feet:

  "He is--like you!...He is tramp-ling!...Yis!...He is tramp-ling!"

  Then he took George up the stairs on to the balcony, which George dutifully admired.

  "Yis?--You like?" He smiled at George eagerly, a little doubtfully, then pointed at his couch and said: "I sleep here!" Then he pointed to the ceiling, which was so low that George had to stoop. "You sleep there?" said Katamoto eagerly.

  George nodded.

  Katamoto went on again with a quick smile, but with embarrassed hesitancy and a painful difficulty in his tone that had not been there before: