The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers

Author:Carson McCullers [McCullers, Carson]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3, mobi, pdf
Tags: Literary, Fiction
ISBN: 9780547346656
Google: iARl5C-ye-AC
Amazon: 0618526412
Publisher: Mariner
Published: 2004-04-21T05:00:00+00:00

Part Three

August 21,1939

Morning

J. WILL not be hurried,' Doctor Copeland said. 'Just let me be. Kindly

allow me to sit here in peace a moment.'

'Father, us not trying to rush you. But it time now to get gone from

here.'

Doctor Copeland rocked stubbornly, his gray shawl drawn close

around his shoulders. Although the morning was warm and fresh, a

small wood fire burned in the stove. The kitchen was bare of all

furniture except the chair in which he sat. The other rooms were

empty, too. Most of the furniture had been moved to Portia's house,

and the rest was tied to the automobile outside. All was in readiness

except his own mind. But how could he leave when there was neither

beginning nor end, neither truth nor purpose in his thoughts? He put

up his hand to steady his trembling head and continued to rock

himself slowly in the creaking

chair.

Behind the closed door he heard their voices: 'I done all I can. He

determined to sit there till he good and ready to leave.'

'Buddy and me done wrapped the china plates and------'

'Us should have left before the dew dried,' said the old man. 'As is,

night liable to catch us on the road.'

Their voices quieted. Footsteps echoed in the empty hallway and he

could hear them no more. On the floor beside him was a cup and

saucer. He filled it with coffee from the pot on the top of the stove.

As he rocked he drank

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the coffee and warmed his fingers in the steam. This could not

truly be the end. Other voices called wordless in his heart. The

voice of Jesus and of John Brown. The voice of the great

Spinoza and of Karl Marx. The calling voices of all those who

had fought and to whom it had been vouchsafed to complete

their missions. The grief-bound voices of his people. And also

the voice of the dead. Of the mute Singer, who was a

righteous white man of understanding. The voices of the weak

and of the mighty. The , rolling voice of his people growing

always in strength and in power. The voice of the strong, true

purpose. And in answer the words trembled on his lips—the

words which ' are surely the root of all human grief—so that

he almost said aloud: 'Almighty Host! Utmost power of the

universe! I have done those things which I ought not to have

done and left undone those things which I ought to have done.

So this cannot truly be the end.'

He had first come into the house with her whom he loved.

And Daisy was dressed in her bridal gown and wore a white

lace veil. Her skin was the beautiful color of dark honey and

her laughter was sweet. At night he had shut himself in the

bright room to study alone. He had tried to cogitate and to

discipline himself to study. But with Daisy near him there was

a strong desire in him that would not go away with study. So

sometimes he surrendered to these feelings, and again he bit

his lips and meditated with the books throughout the night.

And then there were Hamilton and Karl Marx and William

and Portia. All lost. No one remained.

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