Nella chiara mattina domenicale camminavo lungo Olive Street. La cittĂ sembrava deserta, la strada era tranquilla. Mi fermai ad ascoltare. Sentivo qualcosa. Era il suono della felicitĂ . Era il mio cuore che batteva dolcemente, ritmicamente. Un orologio, ecco cosa era, un piccolo congegno della felicitĂ .
I went to the library. I looked at the magazines, at the pictures in them. One day I went to the bookshelves, and pulled out a book. It was Winesburg, Ohio.. I sat at a long mahogany table and began to read. All at once my world turned over. The sky fell in. The book held me. The tears came. My heart beat fast. I read until my eyes burned. I took the book home. I read another Anderson. I read and I read, and I was heartsick and lonely and in love with a book, many books, until it came naturally, and I sat there with a pencil and a long tablet, and tried to write, until I felt I could not go on because the words would not come as they did in Anderson, they only came like drops of blood from my heart.