Theodore Dreiser is old — he is very, very old. I do not know how many years he has lived, perhaps forty, perhaps fifty, but he is very old. Something gray and bleak and hurtful, that has been in the world perhaps forever, is personified in him.
When Dreiser is gone, men shall write books. Many of them, in the books, shall write there will be so many of the qualities Dreiser lacks. The new, the younger man shall have a sense of humor, and everyone knows Dreiser has no sense of humor. More than that, American prose writers shall have grace, lightness of touch, a dream of beauty breaking through the husks of life.
Of those who follow him shall have many things that Dreiser does not have. That is a part of the wonder and beauty of Theodore Dreiser, the things that others shall have because of him,
Long ago, when Dreiser was an editor of the Delineator, he went one day, with a woman friend, to visit an orphan asylum. The woman once told me the story of t
A. Dreiser didn't know what to do with life.
B. Dreiser was old in spirit.
C. The tone in his prose was heavy.
D. Dreiser lacked a sense of humor.
Mr. Jones was very angry with his wife, and she was very angry with her husband.
(21) several days they didn’t speak (22) each other at all. One evening Mr. Jones was very (23) when he came back (24) work, so he went to bed (25) after dinner. Of course, he didn’t say (26) to Mrs. Jones before he went up stairs. Mrs. Jones washed the dinner (27) and then did some sewing. When she went up to bed (28) later than her husband, she found a piece of paper on the small table (29) her bed. On it were the words "Mother. Wake me (30) at 7 a.m. --Father."
When Mr. Jones woke up the next morning, it was nearly 8 a.m. and on the small table near his bed he saw another piece of paper. He took it and read these words: "Father. Wake up. It is 7 a.m. --Mother."
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