From the American Scene: Summer Day
We live beyond experiences, but we do not always oudive them. Even today the smell of fresh rye bread and the click of billiard balls waken memories of my childhood which almost thirty years have not swept away. The gas-lit, red brick house in which I passed my fifth to my thirteenth year comes alive in all its dinginess, its wooden steps and banisters rickety, the smell of alley cat everlastingly over its halls. And there is the bakery on one side of the street door and the poolroom on the other.
One day in particular lingers, defying time to touch it. It was a day during my tenth summer, lonely and tortured by longing and hope and frustration as were so many like it. All around me loomed a world that brushed me aside, making light of my desires and laughing at me. But before the day ended I had stood up and demanded that my voice be heard.
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