Triumph of the Egg and Other Stories

Triumph of the Egg and Other Stories

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by Sherwood Anderson #3 in our series by Sherwood Anderson
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Title: Triumph of the Egg and Other Stories
Author: Sherwood Anderson
Release Date: December, 2004 [EBook #7048] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on February 28, 2003]
Edition: 10
Language: English
Character set encoding: Latin-1
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The Triumph Of The Egg
A Book Of Impressions From American Life In Tales And Poems
By Sherwood Anderson
In Clay By Tennessee Mitchell
In the fields Seeds on the air floating. In the towns Black smoke for a shroud. In my breast Understanding awake. Mid American Chants.
To Robert And John Anderson

Tales are people who sit on the doorstep of the house of my mind. It is cold outside and they sit waiting. I look out at a window.
The tales have cold hands, Their hands are freezing.
A short thickly-built tale arises and threshes his arms about. His nose is red and he has two gold teeth.
There is an old female tale sitting hunched up in a cloak.
Many tales come to sit for a few moments on the doorstep and then go away. It is too cold for them outside. The street before the door of the house of my mind is filled with tales. They murmur and cry out, they are dying of cold and hunger.
I am a helpless man--my hands tremble. I should be sitting on a bench like a tailor. I should be weaving warm cloth out of the threads of thought. The tales should be clothed. They are freezing on the doorstep of the house of my mind.
I am a helpless man--my hands tremble. I feel in the darkness but cannot find the doorknob. I look out at a window. Many tales are dying in the street before the house of my mind.

CONTENTS
THE DUMB MAN I WANT TO KNOW WHY SEEDS THE OTHER WOMAN THE EGG UNLIGHTED LAMPS SENILITY THE MAN IN THE BROWN COAT BROTHERS THE DOOR OF THE TRAP THE NEW ENGLANDER WAR MOTHERHOOD OUT OF NOWHERE INTO NOTHING THE MAN WITH THE TRUMPET

THE DUMB MAN
There is a story.--I cannot tell it.--I have no words. The story is almost forgotten but sometimes I remember.
The story concerns three men in a house in a street. If I could say the words I would sing the story. I would whisper it into the ears of women, of mothers. I would run through the streets saying it over and over. My tongue would be torn loose--it would rattle against my teeth.
The three men are in a room in the house. One is young and dandified. He continually laughs.
There is a second man who has a long white beard. He is consumed with doubt but occasionally his doubt leaves him and he sleeps.
A third man there is who has wicked eyes and who moves nervously about the room rubbing his hands together. The three men are waiting-- waiting.
Upstairs in the house there is a woman standing with her back to a wall, in half darkness by a window.
That is the foundation of my story and everything I will ever know is distilled in it.
I remember that a fourth man came to the house, a white silent man. Everything was as silent as the sea at night. His feet on the stone floor of the room where the three men were made no sound.
The man with the wicked eyes became like a boiling liquid--he ran back and forth like a caged animal. The old grey man was infected by his nervousness--he kept pulling at his beard.
The fourth man, the white one, went upstairs to the woman.
There she was--waiting.
How silent the house was--how loudly all the clocks in the neighborhood ticked. The woman upstairs craved love. That must have been the story. She hungered for love with