"John Kessel - Buffalo" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kessel John)

grimy city dominated by church and family, blinkered and
cramped, forever playing second fiddle to Chicago, New York
and Boston. It offers the immigrant the opportunity to find
steady work in some factory or mill, but, though Kessel
could not have put it into these words, it also puts a lid
on his opportunities. It stands for all disappointed
expectations, human limitations, tawdry compromises, for the
inevitable choice of the expedient over the beautiful, for
an American economic system that turns all things into
commodities and measures men by their bank accounts. It is
the home of the industrial proletariat.

It's not unique. It could be Youngstown, Akron, Detroit.
It's the place my father, and I, grew up.

The afternoon turns hot and still; during a work break
Kessel strips to the waist. About two o'clock a big black
de Soto comes up the road and pulls off onto the shoulder. A
couple of men in suits get out of the back, and one of them
talks to the Forest Service foreman, who nods deferentially.
The foreman calls over to the men.

"Boys, this here's Mr. Pike from the Interior
Department. He's got a guest here to see how we work, a
writer, Mr. H.G. Wells from England."

Most of the men couldn't care less, but the name strikes
a spark in Kessel. He looks over at the little, pot-bellied
man in the dark suit. The man is sweating; he brushes his
mustache.
 The foreman sends Kessel up to show them how they're
topping the trees. He points out to the visitors where the
others with rakes and shovels are leveling the ground for
the overlook. Several other men are building a log rail
fence from the treetops. From way above, Kessel can hear
their voices between the thunks of his axe. H.G. Wells. He
remembers reading _ T_ h_ e _ W_ a_ r _ o_ f _ t_ h_ e
_ W_ o_ r_ l_ d_ s in _ A_ m_ a_ z_ i_ n_ g
_ S_ t_ o_ r_ i_ e_ s. He's read _ T_ h_ e _ O_ u_ t_ l_ i_ n_ e _ o_ f
_ H_ i_ s_ t_ o_ r_ y, too. The
stories, the history, are so large, it seems impossible that
the man who wrote them could be standing not thirty feet
below him. He tries to concentrate on the axe, the tree.

Time for this one to go. He calls down. The men below
look up. Wells takes off his hat and shields his eyes with
his hand. He's balding, and looks even smaller from up
here. Strange that such big ideas could come from such a
small man. It's kind of disappointing. Wells leans over to
Pike and says something. The treetop falls away. The pine