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Question: Look Homeward, Angel script!?
I need the script for Look Homeward, Angel (it's a play) and I've googled it but I can't seem to find it!. Can someone tell me where I can get it on the interweb!?Www@QuestionHome@Com


Best Answer - Chosen by Asker:
Title: Look Homeward, Angel (1929)
Author: Thomas Wolfe
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
eBook No!.: 0300721!.txt
Edition: 1
Language: English
Character set encoding: Latin-1(ISO-8859-1)--8 bit
Date first posted: April 2003
Date most recently updated: April 2003

This eBook was produced by: Don Lainson dlainson@sympatico!.ca

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A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook

Title: Look Homeward, Angel (1929)
A Story of the Buried Life
Author: Thomas Wolfe





TO A!. B!.

"Then, as all my soules bee,
Emparadis'd in you, (in whom alone
I understand, and grow and see,)
The rafters of my body, bone
Being still with you, the Muscle, Sinew, and Veine,
Which tile this house, will come againe!."




TO THE READER

This is a first book, and in it the author has written of
experience which is now far and lost, but which was once part of
the fabric of his life!. If any reader, therefore, should say that
the book is "autobiographical" the writer has no answer for him: it
seems to him that all serious work in fiction is autobiographical--
that, for instance, a more autobiographical work than "Gulliver's
Travels" cannot easily be imagined!.

This note, however, is addressed principally to those persons whom
the writer may have known in the period covered by these pages!.
To these persons, he would say what he believes they understand
already: that this book was written in innocence and nakedness of
spirit, and that the writer's main concern was to give fulness,
life, and intensity to the actions and people in the book he was
creating!. Now that it is to be published, he would insist that
this book is a fiction, and that he meditated no man's portrait
here!.

But we are the sum of all the moments of our lives--all that is
ours is in them: we cannot escape or conceal it!. If the writer has
used the clay of life to make his book, he has only used what all
men must, what none can keep from using!. Fiction is not fact, but
fiction is fact selected and understood, fiction is fact arranged
and charged with purpose!. Dr!. Johnson remarked that a man would
turn over half a library to make a single book: in the same way, a
novelist may turn over half the people in a town to make a single
figure in his novel!. This is not the whole method but the writer
believes it illustrates the whole method in a book that is written
from a middle distance and is without rancour or bitter intention!.




LOOK HOMEWARD, ANGEL



PART ONE


!. !. !. a stone, a leaf, an unfound door; of a stone, a leaf, a door!.
And of all the forgotten faces!.

Naked and alone we came into exile!. In her dark womb we did not
know our mother's face; from the prison of her flesh have we come
into the unspeakable and incommunicable prison of this earth!.

Which of us has known his brother!? Which of us has looked into his
father's heart!? Which of us has not remained forever prison-pent!?
Which of us is not forever a stranger and alone!?

O waste of loss, in the hot mazes, lost, among bright stars on this
most weary unbright cinder, lost! Remembering speechlessly we seek
the great forgotten language, the lost lane-end into heaven, a
stone, a leaf, an unfound door!. Where!? When!?

O lost, and by the wind grieved, ghost, come back again!.



1


A destiny that leads the English to the Dutch is strange enough;
but one that leads from Epsom into Pennsylvania, and thence into
the hills that shut in Altamont over the proud coral cry of the
cock, and the soft stone smile of an angel, is touched by that dark
miracle of chance which makes new magic in a dusty world!.

Each of us is all the sums he has not counted: subtract us into
nakedness and night again, and you shall see begin in Crete four
thousand years ago the love that ended yesterday in Texas!.

The seed of our destruction will blossom in the desert, the alexin
of our cure grows by a mountain rock, and our lives are haunted by
a Georgia slattern, because a London cut-purse went unhung!. Each
moment is the fruit of forty thousand years!. The minute-winning
days, like flies, buzz home to deaWww@QuestionHome@Com