Subject: RE: Books That Most Influenced You
From:
Allan C.
Date: 27 Jun 03 - 01:43 PM
Nobody who knows me well could avoid learning of my love for Mark Twain's writings. While nearly everyone recognizes his humor and some make note of his cynicism; few credit him with the marvelous descriptive powers that are so often evident in his writings. Someday I hope to be able to produce lines such as those he used in the chapter about the "pirate" adventure on the island in "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer":
About midnight Joe awoke, and called the boys. There was a brooding oppressiveness in the air that seemed to bode something. The boys huddled them- selves together and sought the friendly companionship of the fire, though the dull dead heat of the breathless atmosphere was stifling. They sat still, intent and waiting. The solemn hush continued. Beyond the light of the fire everything was swallowed up in the blackness of darkness. Presently there came a quiver- ing glow that vaguely revealed the foliage for a moment and then vanished. By and by another came, a little stronger. Then another. Then a faint moan came sighing through the branches of the forest and the boys felt a fleeting breath upon their cheeks, and shuddered with the fancy that the Spirit of the Night had gone by. There was a pause. Now a weird flash turned night into day and showed every little grass-blade, separate and distinct, that grew about their feet. And it showed three white, startled faces, too. A deep peal of thunder went rolling and tumbling down the heavens and lost itself in sullen rumblings in the distance. A sweep of chilly air passed by, rustling all the leaves and snow- ing the flaky ashes broadcast about the fire. Another fierce glare lit up the forest and an instant crash followed that seemed to rend the tree-tops right over the boys` heads. They clung together in terror, in the thick gloom that followed. A few big rain-drops fell patter- ing upon the leaves.
"Quick! boys, go for the tent!" exclaimed Tom.
They sprang away, stumbling over roots and among vines in the dark, no two plunging in the same direction. A furious blast roared through the trees, making every- thing sing as it went. One blinding flash after another came, and peal on peal of deafening thunder. And now a drenching rain poured down and the rising hurricane drove it in sheets along the ground. The boys cried out to each other, but the roaring wind and the boom- ing thunder-blasts drowned their voices utterly. However, one by one they straggled in at last and took shelter under the tent, cold, scared, and streaming with water; but to have company in misery seemed something to be grateful for. They could not talk, the old sail flapped so furiously, even if the other noises would have allowed them. The tempest rose higher and higher, and presently the sail tore loose from its fastenings and went winging away on the blast. The boys seized each others` hands and fled, with many tumblings and bruises, to the shelter of a great oak that stood upon the river-bank. Now the battle was at its highest. Under the ceaseless conflagration of lightning that flamed in the skies, everything below stood out in clean-cut and shadowless distinctness: the bending trees, the billowy river, white with foam, the driving spray of spume-flakes, the dim outlines of the high bluffs on the other side, glimpsed through the drifting cloud-rack and the slanting veil of rain. Every little while some giant tree yielded the fight and fell crashing through the younger growth; and the unflagging thunder- peals came now in ear-splitting explosive bursts, keen and sharp, and unspeakably appalling. The storm culminated in one matchless effort that seemed likely to tear the island to pieces, burn it up, drown it to the tree-tops, blow it away, and deafen every creature in it, all at one and the same moment. It was a wild night for homeless young heads to be out in.
Or, expressing my own admiration for his humor, I would also love to be able to capture moments such as those observations he made of his early days as a cub pilot of a riverboat and his increasing admiration of Mr. Bixby, the master pilot in "Life On the Mississippi":
It was a rather dingy night, although a fair number of stars were out. The big mate was at the wheel, and he had the old tub pointed at a star and was holding her straight up the middle of the river. The shores on either hand were not much more than half a mile apart, but they seemed wonderfully far away and ever so vague and indistinct. The mate said:-
`We`ve got to land at Jones`s plantation, sir.`
The vengeful spirit in me exulted. I said to myself, I wish you joy of your job, Mr. Bixby; you`ll have a good time finding Mr. Jones`s plantation such a night as this; and I hope you never WILL find it as long as you live.
Mr. Bixby said to the mate:-
`Upper end of the plantation, or the lower.?`
`Upper.`
`I can`t do it. The stumps there are out of water at this stage: It`s no great distance to the lower, and you`ll have to get along with that.`
`All right, sir. If Jones don`t like it he`ll have to lump it, I reckon.`
And then the mate left. My exultation began to cool and my wonder to come up. Here was a man who not only proposed to find this plantation on such a night, but to find either end of it you preferred. I dreadfully wanted to ask a question, but I was carrying about as many short answers as my cargo-room would admit of, so I held my peace. All I desired to ask Mr. Bixby was the simple question whether he was ass enough to really imagine he was going to find that plantation on a night when all plantations were exactly alike and all the same color. But I held in. I used to have fine inspirations of prudence in those days.
I'd also like to emulate the well-mixed cynicism and humor of "Captain Stormfield's Visit To Heaven". In this scene he has just been admitted into heaven:
When I found myself perched on a cloud, with a million other people, I never felt so good in my life. Says I, "Now this is according to the promises; I`ve been having my doubts, but now I am in heaven, sure enough." I gave my palm branch a wave or two, for luck, and then I tautened up my harp-strings and struck in. Well, Peters, you can`t imagine anything like the row we made. It was grand to listen to, and made a body thrill all over, but there was considerable many tunes going on at once, and that was a drawback to the harmony, you understand; and then there was a lot of Injun tribes, and they kept up such another war-whooping that they kind of took the tuck out of the music. By and by I quit performing, and judged I`d take a rest. There was quite a nice mild old gentleman sitting next me, and I noticed he didn`t take a hand; I encouraged him, but he said he was naturally bashful, and was afraid to try before so many people. By and by the old gentleman said he never could seem to enjoy music somehow. The fact was, I was beginning to feel the same way; but I didn`t say anything. Him and I had a considerable long silence, then, but of course it warn`t noticeable in that place. After about sixteen or seventeen hours, during which I played and sung a little, now and then - always the same tune, because I didn`t know any other - I laid down my harp and begun to fan myself with my palm branch. Then we both got to sighing pretty regular. Finally, says he
"Don`t you know any tune but the one you`ve been pegging at all day?"
"Not another blessed one," says I.
"Don`t you reckon you could learn another one?" says he.
"Never," says I; "I`ve tried to, but I couldn`t manage it."
"It`s a long time to hang to the one - eternity, you know."
"Don`t break my heart," says I; "I`m getting low-spirited enough already."
After another long silence, says he
"Are you glad to be here?"
Says I, "Old man, I`ll be frank with you. This AIN`T just as near my idea of bliss as I thought it was going to be, when I used to go to church."
Certainly there are other authors whom I admire; but none so much as Mark Twain. I hope you'll forgive my lengthy pastings here. There was no way to link to these excerpts directly and I know there are some among you who haven't explored this man's wonderfully diverse writings.
|
sj
