THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY

If the extension of novel-reading be so wide as I have described it—then very much good or harm must be done by novels.  The amusement of the time can hardly be the only result of any book that is read, and certainly not so with a novel, which appeals especially to the imagination, and solicits the sympathy of the young.  A vast proportion of the teaching of the day,—greater probably than many of us have as yet acknowledged to ourselves,—comes from these books, which are in the hands of all readers.  It is from them that girls learn what is expected of them, and what they are to expect when lovers come; and also from them that young men unconsciously learn what are, or should be, or may be, the charms of love,—though I fancy that few young men will think so little of their natural instincts and powers as to believe that I am right in saying so.  Many other lessons also are taught.  In these times, when the desire to be honest is pressed so hard, is so violently assaulted, by the ambition to be great; in which riches are the easiest road to greatness; when the temptations to which men are subjected dull their eyes to the perfected iniquities of others . . . men’s conduct will be actuated much by that which is from day to day depicted to them as leading to glorious or inglorious results.  The woman who is described as having obtained all that the world holds to be precious, by lavishing her charms and her caresses unworthily and heartlessly, will induce other women to do the same with theirs . . . .  The young man who in a novel becomes a hero . . . by trickery, falsehood, and flash cleverness, will have many followers . . . .  thinking of all this, as a novelist must surely do . . . it becomes to him a matter of deep conscience how he shall handle those characters by whose words and doings he hopes to interest his readers.

CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

“TOOTSIE KOOCHIKOV.  I allowed myself to be called that for years,” she said, “right on through high school, until one night when I discovered, to my surprise, that I had had enough of it.  It was after I had graduated, when I was working at Captain White’s—that clam bar.”
   “I remember it well,” I said.
   “I was leaning over a table—”
   “I seem to remember that, too,” I said.
   She gave me a look.  “I was giving it a wipe,” she said, “and behind me, sitting in a booth, were some of my former classmates, three little maids from school, and they had a boy with them—a young man, actually—a guy in uniform, not someone I recognized right away.”
   “Denny,” I suggested.
   “You remember him?” she asked.  “You remember Denny?”
   “Yes, of course.”
   “Oh, Peter, you must have had such a crush on me.”
   “I certainly did.  I envied Denny.  I envied all of them.”
   “Well, you’ll have to hold that thought.  You’re making me get ahead of my story.  There I was in Captain White’s, wiping a table, and I heard it behind my back, whispered: ‘Tootsie Koochikov.’  And then the giggles.  When you’ve heard it whispered throughout your formative years, whenever you walk by, it’s hard to miss, and of course there, at the clam bar, my sensitivity was cranked way up, because I felt that everybody was watching me, and of course everybody was watching me.  I was part of the show.  Let’s face it: I was the main attraction.  God!  I used to wear that stupid clam hat.  Do you remember that?”
   “Sure I remember.  I remember it all.”
   “I looked so ridiculous!  Wait!  Wait here.”         [MORE]

WHAT A PIECE OF WORK I AM