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Nightshade the confessions of a reasoning animal PDF book (1924) by Unknown

Nightshade the confessions of a reasoning animal PDF book (1924) by Unknown

Nightshade the confessions of a reasoning animal PDF

I can not decide if this book is a biography or Novel, the writer did not write his name, not even a pen name.
(Review needed )


I shall never get away from this town—never. Last night when I went home from my office I discovered that, or rather I became conscious of what I had long felt subconscious. As I got to the foot of the long narrow flight of stairs, worn thin by the many years’ tread of my father and his clients and of me and my clients, a couple of Lodi youths, hiding forlornly in the cold shelter of the doorway, greeted me with: “Hello, Dag!”

It was dark and cold, and after two days of thawing and a day of freezing, glacier-like ice sheets covered the new cement pavement on Main Street and the dirt roads which branch off from it.

It seemed to be a Lodi night. On the corner stood Hoppy Eggler and Rusty Lattin playing “Red Wing” on the mouth-organ, while two or three miserable little Fronk and Munk's boys listened shivering.

Under the town’s one arc-light, humped over in her rusty black like an ancient raven, one of our many widows crept cautiously over the ice, feeling her way with a cane.

There is a field on the way home which I always* stop to look at. Every day and every night its aspect is different, infinite in its variations as life is, but al¬ ways beautiful, as life is not. Last night it stretched away from its virgin white to the dimly seen low hills of the southwest, and a bitter wind blew across it out of the darkness. Far back on its other edge there sparkled in a semicircle the tiny kerosene street-lamps of Palmira Street.

It made me think of the vast and lonely Russian steppes, beaten by the icy wind that blows from Si¬beria; but the steppes were far away and strange and alien, while this field was strange and infinitely familiar: it was home. It was then I knew that my ancestors, four or five generations of them, had stuck around here too long: that Styxtown is in my blood, never to be eradicated: that I am like the dyer’s hand—subdued to what I work in. No matter where I go, I shall always come back here: no other place will ever be my own place, home, to me.

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