The young man walks fast by himself through the crowd that thins into the night streets; feet are tired from hours of walking; eyes greedy for warm curve of faces, answering flicker of eyes, the set of a head, the lift of a shoulder, the way hands spread and clench; blood tingles with wants; mind is a beehive of hopes buzzing and stinging; muscles ache for the knowledge of jobs, for the roadmenders pick and shovel work, the fishermans knack with a hook when he hauls on the slithery net from the rail of the lurching trawler, the swing of the bridgemans arm as he slings down the whitehot rivet, the engineers slow grip wise on the throttle, the dirtfarmers use of his whole body when, whoaing the mules, he yanks the plow from the furrow. The young man walks by himself searching through the crowd with greedy eyes, greedy ears taut to hear, by himself, alone. -John Dos Passos, USA
Posted on: Thu, 10 Apr 2014 21:18:17 +0000