A World Lost: A Novel (Port William) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Wendell Berry
loved us herself. I was far from seeing any comfort in what
she said to us about Uncle Andrew; I knew he was in no ordinary sleep.
But it was good of her to say it, and I knew that as well.
When all this happened I was younger almost than I can imagine now.
It is hard for me to recall exactly what I felt. I think that I did not grieve in
the knowing and somewhat theoretical way of grown people, who say to
themselves, for example, that a death of some sort awaits us all, and who
may have understood in part how the order of time is shaped and held
within the order of eternity. I had no way of generalizing or conceptualizing my feelings. It seems to me now that I had no sympathy for myself.
Only once do I remember attempting in any outward or verbal way to
own my loss. I admired a girl named Marian Davis who was in my room
at school. One afternoon in the fall of the year of Uncle Andrew's death,
we were walking home in the crowd of boys and girls that straggled out
along the street. Marian was walking slightly in front of me. All at once it came to me that I might enlarge myself in her eyes by attaching to
myself the tragedy that had befallen my family. I stepped up beside her
and said, "Marian, I reckon you heard about Uncle Andrew." Perhaps she
had not heard-that did not occur to me. I thought that she had heard
but was dumbfounded by my clumsy attempt to squander my feelings;
perhaps she even sensed that I was falsifying them in order to squander
them. She pretended not to hear. She did not look at me. In her silence a
fierce shame came upon me that did not wear away for years. I did not try
again to speak of Uncle Andrew's death to anyone until I was grown.
Perhaps I did not grieve in the usual sense at all. The world that I knew
had changed into a world that I knew only in part; perhaps I understood
that I would not be able ever again to think of it as a known world. My
awareness of my loss must have been beyond summary. It must have
been exactly commensurate with what I had lost, and what I had lost was
Uncle Andrew as I had known him, my life with Uncle Andrew. I had lost
what I remembered.
4
I was Uncle Andrew's namesake, and I had come to be his buddy. "My
boy," he would call me when he was under the influence not only of the
considerable tenderness that was in him but of what I now know to have
been bourbon whiskey.
When I first remember him, Uncle Andrew and Aunt Judith were living in Columbia, South Carolina, where Uncle Andrew was a traveling
salesman for a hardware company. They came home usually once in the
summer and again at Christmas. They would come by train, and my
father would take Henry and me and go to meet them. When Aunt Judith
came early and Uncle Andrew made the trip alone, he would not always
arrive on the train we met. I remember standing with Henry on the station platform while our father hurriedly searched through the train on
which Uncle Andrew was supposed to have arrived. I remember our disappointment, and our father's too brief explanation that Uncle Andrew
must have missed the train, leaving us to suppose that when he missed it
Uncle Andrew had been breathlessly trying to catch it. In fact, he may
have missed it by a very comfortable margin; he may have been in circumstances in which he did not remember that he had a train to catch.
His and Aunt Judith's arrival, anyhow, certainly made life more interesting for Henry and me. Aunt Judith, who was childless, was affectionate and indulgent - in need of our affection, as she was of everybody's,
and willing to spoil us for it. Uncle Andrew was so unlike anybody else we knew as to seem a species of one. He was capable of adapting his
speech and manners to present company if he wanted to, but he did not
often want to. He talked to us boys as he talked to everybody else, and in
that way he charmed us. To us, he seemed to exist always at the center
of his own uproar, carrying on in a way that was
she said to us about Uncle Andrew; I knew he was in no ordinary sleep.
But it was good of her to say it, and I knew that as well.
When all this happened I was younger almost than I can imagine now.
It is hard for me to recall exactly what I felt. I think that I did not grieve in
the knowing and somewhat theoretical way of grown people, who say to
themselves, for example, that a death of some sort awaits us all, and who
may have understood in part how the order of time is shaped and held
within the order of eternity. I had no way of generalizing or conceptualizing my feelings. It seems to me now that I had no sympathy for myself.
Only once do I remember attempting in any outward or verbal way to
own my loss. I admired a girl named Marian Davis who was in my room
at school. One afternoon in the fall of the year of Uncle Andrew's death,
we were walking home in the crowd of boys and girls that straggled out
along the street. Marian was walking slightly in front of me. All at once it came to me that I might enlarge myself in her eyes by attaching to
myself the tragedy that had befallen my family. I stepped up beside her
and said, "Marian, I reckon you heard about Uncle Andrew." Perhaps she
had not heard-that did not occur to me. I thought that she had heard
but was dumbfounded by my clumsy attempt to squander my feelings;
perhaps she even sensed that I was falsifying them in order to squander
them. She pretended not to hear. She did not look at me. In her silence a
fierce shame came upon me that did not wear away for years. I did not try
again to speak of Uncle Andrew's death to anyone until I was grown.
Perhaps I did not grieve in the usual sense at all. The world that I knew
had changed into a world that I knew only in part; perhaps I understood
that I would not be able ever again to think of it as a known world. My
awareness of my loss must have been beyond summary. It must have
been exactly commensurate with what I had lost, and what I had lost was
Uncle Andrew as I had known him, my life with Uncle Andrew. I had lost
what I remembered.
4
I was Uncle Andrew's namesake, and I had come to be his buddy. "My
boy," he would call me when he was under the influence not only of the
considerable tenderness that was in him but of what I now know to have
been bourbon whiskey.
When I first remember him, Uncle Andrew and Aunt Judith were living in Columbia, South Carolina, where Uncle Andrew was a traveling
salesman for a hardware company. They came home usually once in the
summer and again at Christmas. They would come by train, and my
father would take Henry and me and go to meet them. When Aunt Judith
came early and Uncle Andrew made the trip alone, he would not always
arrive on the train we met. I remember standing with Henry on the station platform while our father hurriedly searched through the train on
which Uncle Andrew was supposed to have arrived. I remember our disappointment, and our father's too brief explanation that Uncle Andrew
must have missed the train, leaving us to suppose that when he missed it
Uncle Andrew had been breathlessly trying to catch it. In fact, he may
have missed it by a very comfortable margin; he may have been in circumstances in which he did not remember that he had a train to catch.
His and Aunt Judith's arrival, anyhow, certainly made life more interesting for Henry and me. Aunt Judith, who was childless, was affectionate and indulgent - in need of our affection, as she was of everybody's,
and willing to spoil us for it. Uncle Andrew was so unlike anybody else we knew as to seem a species of one. He was capable of adapting his
speech and manners to present company if he wanted to, but he did not
often want to. He talked to us boys as he talked to everybody else, and in
that way he charmed us. To us, he seemed to exist always at the center
of his own uproar, carrying on in a way that was