Selected for publication by Kristen Millares Young
Promiscuous Young Men[1]
I am writing this anonymously,[2] with phrases and sentences that[3] I have borrowed from the library,[4] so nobody knows who did it.[5]
If you recognize me[6]—no, you don’t.[7]
Like many men, I have a ridiculous weakness for[8] cock and can easily kill[9] two or three hours trying to catch some,[10] cruising like an argonaut in search of the golden fleece of life.[11]
But that doesn’t mean I[12] particularly enjoy it.[13] Sex is like eating,[14] what the French call hygiène—and for which we have no English name in any one word. It is[15] a necessary bodily function,[16] something we do because it is right to do it, and we must, rather than because we have any great or direct enjoyment in it;[17] we eat because we need the food,[18] we sleep because we are sleepy.[19] What else are we going to do?[20]
I am no libertine[21] but I eat more than several men of my acquaintance,[22] even when I’m not hungry.[23] Some days I eat three meals,[24] others I can’t touch a thing; and I live then upon strong green tea, or perhaps coffee,[25] reading and writing until my eyes ache[26] and my appetite returns.[27] And then I go out again,[28] like a dog on a dunghill or a cat in a gutter,[29] eating right off the[30] bathroom floor in a semiconscious condition[31] until the sun shoots up, joyous and golden in its glory, painting the skies with flaming banners and penciling the tips and edges of clouds with the fires of morning[32] as I have painted, and upon my knees,[33] edging the tip of each[34] shooting pencil in one hand and[35] holding the door shut with[36] the other hand until relieved.[37]
Is that too much information[38]—or do you need more?[39] I’ll tell you all about it if you want to know.[40] I am not ashamed anymore.[41] It’s easy when you use[42] someone else’s words![43]
Have you ever been with a man?[44] I wouldn’t recommend it.[45]
Sex with men is discouraging in the extreme.[46] We are really terribly deficient,[47] as flaky as puff paste and not[48] much better for the heart.[49] One minute we’re here and the next we’ve vanished like smoke,[50] as mercurial as quicksilver itself[51] and less than half as[52] fun to play with.[53] Everything we do is merely practice work for something greater[54]—something great that never comes,[55] and leaves the rest of us to chase the shadow.[56]
3 a.m. is a favorite time for it to begin.[57] People get up from bed completely awake,[58] their hands in their pants,[59] thinking thoughts that they had not thought for years[60]—at least not openly. Only with the heart.[61] Thoughts that they dare not tell to each other[62] except on the phone,[63] with pictures of their own design,[64] or in the shadows under the alders that hem the river’s banks[65] where they reveal their hidden treasures[66]—smaller and shorter in proportion[67] in person than they were when filtered through the softening[68] light of the camera,[69] looking queerer and hairier than ever,[70] but nonetheless an appreciable quantity.[71]
Yes, it’s not an easy business![72] Men are as disappointing at first sight as Niagara Falls.[73] Many sentences are like that; you think they’re strong, beautiful, full of meaning and bright with fancy, while you’re getting them out—then they appear so pale and thin when you look them over,[74] too small to even properly[75] touch the back of your throat.[76] Still, you want them;[77] you want them no matter what it costs—it pays.[78]
And does it pay, when you have to work so hard for it?[79] Maybe not enough[80]—a good writer is always[81] broke, broken like an empty eggshell.[82] But at least the words[83] of dead authors and thoughts in a library[84] don’t leave bloodstains behind,[85] sticky spots of oil[86] and other stains of an albuminous nature,[87] dripping down your pale cheeks[88] or between your thighs[89] while you cry for mercy,[90] begging for more.[91] All they leave is the stale bitter taste[92] of meaningless words and syllables[93]—shattered and spent, but not yet broken.[94]
The breaking is for[95] people like us to do.[96]
My father was gay.[97] Or at least bi,[98] as he finally admitted[99] just before he shot himself.[100] He was in love with a man[101] he met on the road[102] decades ago when he was in his prime.[103] They met in the desert to avoid the[104] world and make love,[105] the same desert I myself[106] had moved to in order to afford me a better education than[107] Mississippi could afford to render.[108] The desert he had returned once more to,[109] appearing out of the blue[110] at my door like an ordinary Christian[111] here to talk about Christ.[112]
“I had a beautiful man,[113] a beautiful wife, a beautiful son, a beautiful daughter[114]—I was making money and friends—I was happy.[115] I had a beautiful life.”[116]
That was what he said,[117] staring out the window at the roofs and the lights and the interminable vista of other men’s homes.[118] I was proud of him for saying so;[119] it was the first time I had ever heard him say it.[120] I appreciated his visit very much, and it was one of the[121] few times that we were alone together.[122] We didn’t fight. We never got mad at each other.[123] All we did was talk and look out of the window[124] and remember better days,[125] and then he was gone again.[126]
I would soon discover that[127] he had not come to visit me[128] at all, but had in fact gone[129] all that way just to[130] walk through the desert until[131] he died from heat stroke.[132] But in the desert, he found a[133] renewed beauty in life as it again opened before him,[134] so he got back in the car and[135] came to visit his son, Daniel,[136] before heading back South[137] to his wife who never left his side[138]—to live his life and partake of his eternal joys[139] while there was still time to continue the search.[140]
A month later he was dead.[141]
Growing up along the Mississippi[142] I was terrified of death[143] by drive-by[144] shooting, like in the[145] old movies on television[146] (not that I can think of any[147]—where did I get that idea?).[148]
I never walked with my[149] back to a car[150] and hid in a ditch[151] when I thought I heard one coming.[152] Especially at night, when I’d[153] go wandering into the beautiful, beautiful fairy world[154] of North Mississippi in October,[155] breaking into abandoned stores and houses[156] and making trouble for the police.[157] My friend and I were always on the move, sometimes riding and at other times walking,[158] always hiding from the sight of[159] passing cars and pedestrians.[160]
I used to walk through the woods to[161] meet him in a barn at midnight,[162] where we played together as boys[163] do—without knowing what they do,[164] partly willingly, and partly unwillingly.[165] I knew only that there was a cold, hard grip upon my heart which seemed to hold it still, and that in my brain there had begun a mad dance of all that I ever thought I knew,[166] but which was in fact untrue.[167]
“Blow me,” he said,[168] and I got down and[169] blew like a bellows,[170] cheeks puffed out like two rosy apples.[171] He stood there with his arms crossed on his wide breast, his head erect,[172] confused by my action.[173] Then he laughed and said,[174] “Don’t literally blow.[175] Try sucking it,[176] like you would candy or fruit.[177] Yes, there you go![178] Just like that—just like that—just like that…”[179]
How did our fathers do it?[180] How did they know where to go? Whom did they find[181] when they got there, their[182] wives waiting at home,[183] well aware of what such an unhappy affliction can do to unsettle a man?[184] What dangers did they have to overcome[185] just to get off?[186]
They used to call it the[187] “tearoom trade,”[188] by which they meant what is now called cruising.[189] When my father was a boy,[190] they had to cruise about blind[191] until they were so tired and hot that they actually dropped right down on the ground and[192] waited for someone to blow.[193] Better hope it was not[194] a cop or a Fed![195] If you were trans[196] or you were Black,[197] then the cops would have a catch.[198]
Maybe that’s why it was[199] Black and trans[200] people who fought back,[201] while we white people consider the[202] matter settled as soon as[203] we hear the siren’s winsome song[204] and see those blue-bedecked invaders form into long-linked lines.[205] Gay whites[206] are a cowardly and cruel race of robbers, romantically picturesque in their dress, and singularly[207] stealing rights from the[208] people who actually make progress,[209] the people of color within the United States.[210]
I’m a coward, too.[211] What would I have done[212] a hundred years ago? Not[213] gone cruising down the avenue[214] all alone while the night winds sadly moan, with no cheering gleam of light[215] to guide me on my journey![216] Not throw bricks at the[217] army of cops in order to make the getaway from the dance-hall possible![218]
That’s why I hide myself[219] in the library, stealing the contents of two[220] hundred books or so[221] in order to talk at all to the purpose[222]—to talk about myself, and my own position[223] in a strange and somewhat difficult situation,[224] a situation I’ll never admit.[225]
My life has not been without its alleviations.[226] I have had sex[227] in my car with my head out the window,[228] exposed to the fine and delicate dust which[229] blows in from the desert, bringing with it a feeling of invigoration.[230] I’ve had sex[231] in a hotel room, where a small amount of fruit, milk or other food could be[232] found in the lobby[233] on the way out the next morning.[234] I’ve even had it when there[235] were other people in the room besides the[236] person inside me,[237] watching while I drew difficult breath.[238]
It has been going on for years now,[239] these goings and comings, these tergiversations.[240] Cruising is a mighty dangerous custom,[241] but not without its fruit.[242] I’ve walked the streets all night[243] hoping not to see[244] my father, who walked dreamily up and down the avenues[245] in his own days.[246] I’ve dodged the police[247] and hidden from the eyes of men, stripping[248] down to nothing in a moment[249] and then stripping up[250] again before anyone should notice the change.[251] I’ve been chased by dogs[252] and chased them right back[253] until we were both so exhausted that we couldn’t scrap any longer.[254] I’ve bottomed many a deep thing[255] in the darkness of a deeper night than that which[256] swallowed up the rod of the Egyptian sorcerers,[257] the snake of Moses and Cleopatra[258] drinking down the excretion with an unquenchable thirst;[259] I have topped the[260] biggest asses in the world[261] just to see if they were comfortable,[262] just like my father did.[263] I have done all these things, and more.[264]
The only thing I haven’t tried[265] is loving a man because he is good,[266] and because he makes me[267] want to be good, too.[268]
Men and sentences,[269] strangers with strange words[270]—why do I search them out?[271] What is it that I really desire?
Ask me today, and I shall answer one thing; ask me next year, and it may be another.[272] I don’t like men and I don’t[273] like reading. I can’t bear poetry. When a boy says[274] I am like the moon which shines into his room,[275] it makes me sick to my stomach[276] and when I read a book[277] from two hundred years ago, I[278] experience nothing but dryness, boredom, and repugnance.[279]
Then why do I read?[280] Why do I walk the streets as if I were Campbell’s “Last Man,”[281] searching the ruins of burned-out passions and agonies[282] for old words and black-letter lore[283] with which to reconstruct and heal our disordered souls,[284] words that I know no[285] longer exist, if they ever did?[286]
Well, why wouldn’t I![287] It is a compulsion[288] without reason, an aspersion upon the integrity of any[289] claim that man is rational.[290]
But what can you expect from a man?[291] Man is irrational.[292] Man is literally a child,[293] dodging cars, wagons and traffic cops[294] without even looking where we go.[295] We are worse than children;[296] children eventually grow up.[297] Show me a man particularly engaged with rational[298] thinking and I’ll show you[299] a man who hasn’t a will of his own[300]—a man who has forgotten the appearance his own face made in the mirror,[301] the face of an intelligent gorilla and the braincase of a man.[302]
The best thing we can do is just to keep cool, whistle the same tune right along, and work steadily on towards the sundown[303]—when we will return to the life and the people and the conditions we knew,[304] the life that we are to live, can live, may live,[305] whether or not we like the prospect.[306]
So I go out and traverse the boulevards and streets[307] like my father did, and suffer the hardships that he would, and have a bare existence;[308] a hold on life,[309] a search for a secret,[310] a passing encounter by the roadside[311] to tide me over until I see an opening,[312] a way out of this incessant revolt and conflict,[313] though I know no such thing[314] exists—not even in a dream.[315]
I know I am stupid.[316] I am repeating a twice-told tale,[317] twice heard and twice appealed.[318] I keep looking for someone or something to come and save me,[319] or at least to show what form its termination takes,[320] but the conflict rages on. These myths are delightful reading,[321] but dangerous living.[322]
But dangerous living[323] is still living, and life, like[324] writing, still lives when the paper itself has been eaten by flame, and the flame swallowed by the air.[325] As long as I am looking,[326] I am still alive, and I may live a long while.[327]
Which is more than I can say for my[328] father, who already had enough.[329]
Mementos Mori[330]
I will never believe, in the face of any evidence, that machines can take the place of human writers.[331] There is one good story told[332]—the universal story of the soul—[333]and machines do not know how to[334] tell it any better than the others have,[335] including myself.[336]
If they want it let them try it.[337] Then they’ll see the mystery, why men are fallen so;[338] why they are always condemning vice, and yet the world is filled with it—[339]the silly crimes of dull humanity—[340]and why we try to hide them under poetry and art.[341] Let them try a tale of joy or woe, all in words of three letters or less[342]—three letters are as good as 3,000 or 30,000 or 300,000 to demonstrate the fact that words are[343] all it takes to write,[344] and words are as numerous as the blades of grass in our valley; all that is wanting is indecision.[345]
I have decided to be more human to my fellow friends and leave my[346] rights to the machines,[347] to the animals and to the plants of the field[348]—to anyone that wants them, without restriction.[349] Boys can write. Dogs, bark.[350] Let the dogs work it out[351]—let them write short biographical sketches of great[352] bones and tusks of animals, so big that no animals on the earth now can carry them.[353] Let the horses trot[354] out some verses, graceful, defiant, triumphant, and yet a little touched with sadness.[355] Let the birds show us[356] how to compose a tolerable sentence.[357] Let the cats come to school,[358] let the pigs have all they need to[359] write ten volumes of synthetic philosophy, every page of which tells us something;[360] often, in the most charming manner, that they have nothing to tell us.[361]
But you will not stop them from reading.[362] The machines read the letters reproduced on this page[363] much faster than I can write them.[364] Yes, but there is no hurry.[365] Let them read as much as they can.[366] I will never cease advising my friends and enemies to read poetry,[367] a power of discovery of documents equally extensive with that possessed by courts.[368] There’s nothing in there that’s of any use.[369] No amount of words, however well chosen, can communicate[370] anything that isn’t already pretty well known.[371] If you want to write stories—if in your daydreams you make up tales about yourself—if you are creating[372] silly sentences about cats just like the pigs and horses[373]—then you already know by experience that even when[374] people read, and read, and read, blandly unconscious,[375] that nothing is communicated from A to B or C[376] unless we know the alphabet[377] in advance of the recitation[378]—in which case we are no further advanced than before.[379]
Anyway, what I like is chewing-gum.[380] It keeps me from being sentimental,[381] keeps my mouth closed.[382] Think much, speak little, and write less[383]—that’s what my father told me, and he was a reasonable man;[384] he shot himself in the back part of the head, back of the ear,[385] so as to remove nearly half the covering.[386] Of course, I can’t tell you what happened in Little Valley that day, because I wasn’t there.[387] “Where death is,” said a philosopher, “we are not.”[388] But he was always clear-headed, and read to good purpose.[389] And I’m not ashamed to say I miss him, very much, and then to have such an unaccountable mystery about it—I should think you’d miss him too.[390]
Here is where the value of chewing gum enters[391]—bubble-gum and dancing[392]—thinking and moving of bodies[393]—throwing off the ever-rising, bubbling, bursting superabundance of hilarity which can find no adequate expression[394]—all in order to save ourselves from Nothingness.[395] “Nothingness is the only good in life,” says Schopenhauer.[396] “I am nothingness” is the reason of existence of all that is.[397]
I understand little of it and believe not a word.[398]
Fortunately such a doctrine of nothingness is actually believed in only by a few;[399] most people believe that they have “sensations”—[400]sensations lead to higher forms of mental activity, such as emotion and imagination[401]—and we are back where we started, and the old cat jumps over the fence again.[402]
(The moral of the above is so plain as to need explanation:[403]—if cats could be made retrievers in fowling excursions among the fens, and snakes were charmed (as they still are in the East)—if monkeys helped to gather fruit, and if crocodiles could be taught to come out of the water when called by name—[404] and if machines were brought from the moon,[405] for example, shut up in the moon’s rocks,[406] a much better technology than now exists[407]—I mean if they had really been able to do the world any good[408]—they would still be no better off than they are now.)[409]
I am not saying it isn’t all for the best, you know. You may call me an optimist, I suppose[410]—optimism is a state of mind that you can have independent of conditions or environment[411]—and this environment is not anything mysterious, it is simply ourselves.[412] The mystery is that any mystery has been found,[413] as mystical as the “moonlight sonatas” of Swedenborg, as skeptical as smiling Montaigne, as poetical as Shakespeare.[414] But I don’t consider it right to mystify the people in such a way as to their feelings—why not speak to them in clear distinct words?[415] Why not use words that are kind?[416]
Lately I have been looking everywhere to get one[417]—a clear word, outspoken to the light, from a free tongue,[418] in a way that no machine has ever described;[419] as kind as a regenerated human soul,[420] the kind of word that goes to the place where you want your thought to go,[421] where words are imposed arbitrariously, distorted from their common use,[422] and where dreams are recorded,[423] contorted into their present daring forms[424] on the sheer edge of a cliff without the semblance of a foothold beyond it.[425] I have looked over the edge[426] for a word that does not occur to the memory[427] because I want to tell you something[428]—to say something about “how glad I am to be here,”[429] and how glad I am that you came when you did,[430] and how I can’t possibly express myself[431]—and don’t want to stop to think,[432] to stop writing, lest you should[433] decide to stop reading[434]—and leave me here alone again,[435] alone with the words of the love-message,[436] running the machine into the cliff.[437]
I want to tell you something[438] even if nothing is said in the deed.[439] Indeed I want nothing—and did I want anything, have I not a friend?[440] And as friends should do[441] we will say nothing, but leave the words to burn their way in as they may.[442] What remains will be computed from the beginning to the[443] end by the machine, the other ends being[444] either reduced to writing or left unwritten[445]—depending on whether they are to be cultivated by hand-tools, or by horsepower.[446]
The difference, of course, is mainly verbal,[447] and the loss is easily borne by trying to forget it.[448] So we will forget all else that has been said, and start over again.[449] Why fret and sweat and try to mend? It’s all the same thing in the end.[450]
Lies Of Me and Mine[451]
(Wrongfully Cut from the Public Domain)[452]
When my father shot himself and deserted my mother and me,[453] my mother told me that it would destroy the earth[454] if I killed myself like that[455]—blowing my brains out[456] all over the car, deluging the footboards completely.[457]
I think she was lying,[458] trying to get me to commit[459] to be a better a man than my father.[460] She was trying to make me good,[461] whether it was strictly true or not;[462] it was not the first lie she had told for that purpose.[463] I am quite sure it will not be her last.[464]
When I was ten years old, after my return home from school[465] with a bad grade[466] because I counted the[467] number of beans in the jar[468] instead of just guessing at it,[469] my mother told me I should meet with many temptations to do what I thought wrong,[470] but to always do right[471]—at least what I think is right.[472]
“You are smarter than they are.[473] Count all the beans[474]—and eat them, too!”[475]
And again, when I was twelve years old, I was told[476] that I was gifted with remarkable qualities. I recognized the fact that[477] this was not true, but what is the use of crying bad fish?[478] I let her think that I believed it;[479] and then I went out the back door[480] to hook up with the kid[481] who lived with his grandmother.[482] (This kid was at the bottom of[483] a very low social condition, and[484] I hated him almost as much[485] as I hate myself now[486] but he was not to blame for it—he only did what[487] someone else had already done[488] to him when he was about 10.)[489]
I told my mother we were quite safe[490] together. We were not.[491]
One time my mother discovered me[492] smoking dope and[493] drinking straight 150-proof palm-rum.[494] I told her I was going to have my fling this year,[495] but I’m going to get it out of my system[496] and return to the world of the living[497] just as soon as I can hitch a ride on a returning spaceboat.[498]
Another time she caught sight of[499] my self-flagellation[500] routine, usually concluded at night by[501] the time she goes to bed,[502] and asked me what I was doing, and I told[503] her I was testing and experimenting with a new experience.[504] I was simply bored sometimes in the evening at bedtime,[505] I explained, my hands loose at my sides,[506] and this was my way of expressing it.[507]
She told me she didn’t see anything queer,[508] but that next time I should try to[509] keep the door closed, because that keeps the heat out of the house.[510]
“Mississippi heat, and I enjoy it,”[511] I said, trying not to irritate her by direct opposition.[512] “The open door lets out a powerful lot more than it lets in.”[513]
“Well, just try to remember[514] to close it when you want ‘expression.’”[515]
Sometimes I write about what I do, what I ought to do or what I hope to do,[516] but I do not write with any hope of either persuading or enlightening my fellow men.[517] I cannot even persuade my own[518] mother when I tell her that I have not the slightest desire to[519] die as her husband did.[520]
Writing is lying,[521] but I don’t think I’m lying to you now—no, I don’t think I am.[522] Indeed, I write as I think—and[523] I am writing because I have not the courage to speak it.[524] It seems to have got to that: I cannot open my mouth without lying.[525]
Perhaps someday all this[526] mutual lying and deceit[527] will make a good story, whatever it is,[528] and people will read it, and be convinced by it.[529] They’ll watch me walk serenely[530] by with the dog,[531] three times a day after meals,[532] and each time they will say,[533] “There goes someone who is[534] different than his father,[535] someone who somehow can keep alive the thought of the sacredness of human life[536] even if it cost him a little trouble.”[537]
“Yes, that’s him—not a doubt of it.[538] I know that writer,”[539] they will say; “He[540] is a boy and his mother is a widow woman, who loves him with all her might.[541] They do nothing but lie to you from morning to night.”[542]
That boy and I used[543] to hide in the guest room[544] up in the attic, where there was nobody but God to see[545] what he planned to do to me.[546] I would lay on my back and contemplate the[547] sampler hanging on the wall,[548] reading the silly poem[549] that sticks in my mind as a picture remains in a room:[550]
Now I lay me down to sleep;
I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake.
I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to take.[551]
Outside it was hot summer-time.[552] Inside it was colder than the Poles,[553] and I was frozen as stiff as[554] an iron chain holding on in a gale of wind.[555] It was all I could do to lie motionless, breathing heavily, as the light fell full on my face.
“Ah! Found him!” was the exclamation, as[556] my mother entered the room. I stole an eager glance at her; she did not look angry, neither did she appear pleased.[557]
“We’re just playing hospital, mother!” came from[558] my frozen lips, and—I awoke.
It was a dream.[559]
I love my mother, I do.[560] But sometimes I wonder if she is not lacking in the sense of proportion,[561] always exaggerating that was good in me, always forgetting what was faulty and weak.[562]
If I died then I should certainly go to hell.[563] I lie, I steal, I blaspheme, I commit fornication.[564] She has caught me in many a white lie, and black one, too[565]—as I have often caught white ones,[566] and one (or two) black,[567] coming from her own lips.[568]
The difference is that I am honest. I just say in plain English,[569] “I am bad, and that doesn’t matter either. Nothing matters[570] but being a good son when you happen to be a[571] bad one, perhaps as bad as any to be found.[572] And I am just good enough for you;[573] you are good enough for the best.”[574]
And the best that can be made of our lot[575] is to lie, and to lie freely,[576] the dream that lies perdu in human life.[577]
Daniel Uncapher is a queer and disabled Mississippian whose recent work has appeared in West Branch, Ninth Letter, The Sun, The Georgia Review, Chicago Review, The Cincinnati Review, and elsewhere. He is currently finishing a PhD at the University of Utah, where he is the New Media editor for Quarterly West, and holds an MFA from Notre Dame, where he was a Nicholas Sparks Fellow. He lives in Salt Lake City with his dog, Arthur.
Guest Judge: Kristen Millares Young is a journalist, essayist, and author of the novel Subduction, named a staff pick by the Paris Review and called “whip-smart” by the Washington Post, “a brilliant debut” by the Seattle Times, and“utterly unique and important” by Ms. Magazine. Winner of Nautilus and IPPY awards, Subduction was shortlisted for the VCU Cabell First Novelist Award and named a finalist for two International Latino Book Awards and Foreword Indies Book of the Year in 2020. Her essays, book reviews, and investigations appear in the Washington Post, the Guardian, Literary Hub, andthe anthologies Advanced Creative Nonfiction, Latina Outsiders, and Alone Together, winner of a 2021 Washington State Book Award. A former Prose Writer-in-Residence at Hugo House, she is the editor of Seismic: Seattle, City of Literature, a finalist for a 2021 Washington State Book Award. Kristen was the researcher for the New York Times team that produced “Snow Fall,” which won a Pulitzer Prize. She is the 2023 Distinguished Visiting Writer for Seattle University and the University of Washington Bothell Master of Fine Arts program.
[1] Eleanor Atkinson, The How and Why Library (1919)
[2] “Ingemiseit Scepticus” from The Classical Bulletin, Vol. 2 (1926)
[3] Edmund Burke Huey, The History and Pedagogy of Reading (1908)
[4] A. C. Oudemans, The Great Sea-Serpent: An Historical and Critical Treatise (1892)
[5] Albion W. Tourgée, Figs and Thistles: A Romance of the Western Reserve (1879)
[6] Florence Blackburn White Schoeffel, If It Were True: A Heart Interest Story (1894)
[7] John Kendrick Bangs, A Proposal Under Difficulties: A Farce (1896)
[8] Barklie McKee Henry, Deceit: A Novel (1924)
[9] Adam White, The Instructive Picture-Book (1857)
[10] Francis Coghlan, Hand-book for Central Europe (1845)
[11] Erskine Steele, “Fiction and Social Ethics” from The South Atlantic Quarterly, Vol. 5 (1906)
[12] Joseph Crosby Lincoln, The Portygee: A Novel (1920)
[13] Sarah Atkins, Relics of Antiquity (1826)
[14] H. W. Long, Sane Sex Life and Sane Sex Living (1919)
[15] William Hosmer, The Young Lady’s Book: or, Principles of Female Education (1854)
[16] Charles Morris, Twentieth Century Encyclopaedia (1912)
[17] “Miscellanies” from The Primitive Methodist Magazine (1875)
[18] “National Educational Association Forty-Second Annual Convention” from Stenographer and Phonographic World, Vol. 22 (1903)
[19] Charles Brandt, The Vital Problem (1924)
[20] Percy Keese Fitzhugh, Roy Blakeley’s Bee-line Hike (1922)
[21] Elizabeth Singer Rowe, Friendship in Death: In Twenty Letters from the Dead to the Living (1750)
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