That Isn’t the Point

The summer evening together that had left its mark on the memory of both the young man and woman had, when looked at quite sensibly, been rather stupidly spent. They had walked out of town along a country road. Then they had stopped by a fence near the field of young corn and George had taken off his coat and let it hang on his arm. “Well, I’ve stayed here in Winesburg – yes – I’ve not yet gone away but I’m growing up,” he had said. “I’ve been reading books and I’ve been thinking. I’m going to try to amount to something in life.

“Well,” he explained, “that isn’t the point. Perhaps I’d better quit talking.”

—Sherwood Anderson, Winesburg, Ohio

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