About Henry: short stories, early writings. ABOUT

Amazing

We know a man who is perhaps the most witty of all thinkers ever born in our country. His way of solving a problem logically almost borders on inspiration.

One day last week his wife asked him to make some purchases and, in view of the fact that with all the power of logical thinking, he is rather forgetful of everyday little things, she tied a knot on his handkerchief. About nine o'clock in the evening, hurrying home, he accidentally took out a handkerchief, noticed the bundle and stopped in his tracks. He - at least kill! - could not remember for what purpose this knot was tied.

Let's see, he said. - The knot was made so that I would not forget. So he is a forget-me-not. Forget-me-not is a flower. Aha! Eat! I have to buy flowers for the living room.

The powerful intellect has done its work.

Stranger's call

He was tall, angular, with sharp gray eyes and a solemnly serious face. The dark overcoat he wore was buttoned up and had something priestly in its cut. His dirty reddish trousers dangled, not even covering the tops of his shoes, but his high hat was extremely impressive, and in general one might have thought that this was a country preacher on a Sunday walk.

He drove from a small cart, and when he came abreast of a group of five or six people stationed on the porch of a post office in a small Texas town, he stopped his horse and climbed out.

My friends,” he said, “you all seem to be intelligent people, and I consider it my duty to say a few words about the terrible and shameful state of affairs that is observed in this part of the country. I am referring to the nightmarish barbarism that has recently manifested itself in some of the most cultured cities of Texas, when human beings, made in the image and likeness of the creator, were brutally tortured and then brutally burned alive in the most crowded streets. Something must be done to remove this stain from your state's pure name. Don't you agree with me?

Are you from Galveston, stranger? one of the people asked.

No sir. I am from Massachusetts, the cradle of freedom for the unfortunate Negroes and the nursery of their most ardent defenders. These human bonfires make us weep tears of blood, and I am here to try to awaken compassion in your hearts for the black brothers.

And will you not repent that you have invoked fire for the painful administration of justice?

Not at all.

And you will continue to subject the Negroes to a terrible death at the stake?

If circumstances force.

In that case, gentlemen, since your resolve is unwavering, I want to offer you a few grosses of matches, cheaper than you have ever seen. Take a look and see. Full guarantee. They do not go out in any wind and ignite on anything: wood, brick, glass, cast iron, iron and soles. How many boxes would you like, gentlemen?

Colonel's novel

They sat by the fireplace, drinking pipes. Their thoughts began to turn to the distant past.

The conversation touched upon the places where they had spent their youth and the changes that the passing years had brought with them. All of them had long lived in Houston, but only one of them was a native of Texas.

The colonel came from Alabama, the judge was born on the Mississippi swamps, the grocer saw the light of day for the first time in frozen Maine, and the mayor proudly declared that his homeland was Tennessee.

Have any of you guys gone on a visit home since you moved in here? asked the Colonel.

It turned out that the judge had been home twice in twenty years, the mayor once, the grocer never.

It's a funny feeling, said the Colonel, to visit the places where you grew up after fifteen years away. Seeing people you haven't seen for so long is like seeing ghosts. As for me, I was in Crosstree, Alabama, exactly fifteen years after my departure from there. I will never forget the impression this visit made on me.

There was once a girl in Crosstree whom I loved more than anyone in the world. One day I slipped away from my friends and went to the grove where I used to often walk with her. I walked along the paths that our feet stepped on. The oaks on both sides have hardly changed. The little blue flowers might have been the same ones she wore in her hair as she came out to meet me.

We especially liked to walk along a row of dense laurels, behind which a tiny stream gurgled. Everything was exactly the same. No change tormented my heart. Above me rose the same huge sycamores and poplars; the same river ran; my feet trod along the same path along which we often walked with her. It seemed that if I waited, she would surely come, walking lightly in the darkness, with her star-eyes and chestnut curls, as loving as ever. It seemed to me then that nothing could separate us - no doubt, no misunderstanding, no lie. But - who can know?

I have reached the end of the path. There was a big hollow tree in which we left notes to each other. How many sweet things could this tree tell, if only it could! I thought that after the clicks and blows of life, my heart was hardened - but it turned out that this was not so.

I looked into the hollow and saw something white in its depths. It was a folded piece of paper, yellow and dusty with age. I unfolded it and read it with difficulty.

"My dear Richard! You know that I will marry you if you want it. Come early tonight and I will give you a better answer than in a letter. Yours and only your Nellie."

Gentlemen, I was standing there with this little piece of paper in my hand, as if in a dream. I wrote to her, asking her to be my wife, and offered to put the answer in the hollow of an old tree. She apparently did just that, but I didn't find it in the dark, and all these years have flown since then over this tree and this leaf...

The listeners were silent. The mayor wiped his eyes, and the judge grunted amusingly. They were old people now, but they also knew love in their youth.

That's when, said the grocer, you went to Texas and never saw her again?

No, - said the colonel, - when I did not come to them that night, she sent my father to me, and two months later we were married. She and five guys are now at my house. Pass the tobacco, please.
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Copyright: short stories O.HENRY

O.Henry(Eng. O. Henry, real name William Sydney Porter, eng. William Sydney Porter) is a recognized master of the American short story. His short stories are characterized by subtle humor and unexpected endings.

William Sidney Porter Born September 11, 1862 in Greensboro, North Carolina. At the age of three, he lost his mother, who died of tuberculosis. Later he came under the care of his paternal aunt. After school, he studied to be a pharmacist, worked in a pharmacy with his uncle. Three years later he went to Texas, tried different professions- worked on a ranch, served in the land administration. Then he worked as a cashier and accountant in a bank in the Texas city of Austin.

The first literary experiments date back to the early 1880s. In 1894, Porter began publishing the humorous weekly Rolling Stone in Austin, filling it almost entirely with his own essays, jokes, poems, and drawings. A year later, the magazine closed, at the same time Porter was fired from the bank and sued in connection with the shortage, although it was reimbursed by his family.

After being accused of embezzlement, he hid from law enforcement officers in Honduras for six months, then in South America. Upon his return to the United States, he was convicted and sent to the Columbus prison in Ohio, where he spent three years (1898-1901).

In prison, Porter worked in the infirmary and wrote stories, looking for a pseudonym for himself. In the end, he settled on the O. Henry variant (often spelled incorrectly like the Irish surname O'Henry - O'Henry). Its origin is not entirely clear. The writer himself claimed in an interview that Henry's name was taken from a column secular news in the newspaper, and the initial O. is chosen as the simplest letter. He told one of the newspapers that O. stands for Olivier ( french name Olivier), and indeed, he published several stories there under the name Olivier Henry. According to others, this is the name of the famous French pharmacist Etienne Ocean Henry, whose medical reference book was popular at that time. Another hypothesis was put forward by the writer and scientist Guy Davenport: “Oh. Henry" is nothing more than an abbreviation of the name of the prison where the author was imprisoned - Ohio Penitentiary. His first story under this pseudonym - "Dick the Whistler's Christmas Present", published in 1899 in McClure's Magazine - he wrote in prison.

O. Henry's only novel, Cabbages and Kings, was published in 1904. It was followed by collections of short stories: The four million (The four million, 1906), The burning lamp (The trimmed Lamp, 1907), Heart of the West (Heart of the West, 1907), The Voice of the City (The Voice of the City, 1908), The Gentle Grafter (1908), Roads of Destiny (1909), Selected (Options, 1909), Strictly Business (1910) and Rotation (Whirligigs, 1910).

At the end of his life, O. Henry suffered from cirrhosis of the liver and diabetes. The writer died on June 5, 1910 in New York.

The collection "Postscripts" (Postscripts), published after the death of O. Henry, included feuilletons, sketches and humorous notes written by him for the newspaper "Post" (Houston, Texas, 1895-1896). In total, O. Henry wrote 273 stories, complete collection of his works is 18 volumes.

O. Henry (eng. O. Henry, pseudonym, real name William Sidney Porter- English. William Sydney Porter; 1862–1910) was an American novelist, prose writer, and author of popular short stories characterized by subtle humor and unexpected endings.
Biography
William Sidney Porter was born September 11, 1862 in Greensboro, North Carolina. After school, he studied to be a pharmacist, worked in a pharmacy. Then he worked as a cashier-accountant in a bank in the Texas city of Austin. He was accused of embezzlement and hid from law enforcement officers in Honduras for six months, then in South America. Returning to the United States, he was convicted and sent to the Columbus prison in Ohio, where he spent three years (1898-1901).
In prison, Porter worked in the infirmary and wrote stories, looking for a pseudonym for himself. In the end, he chose the O. Henry variant (often incorrectly spelled like the Irish surname O'Henry - O'Henry). Its origin is not entirely clear. The writer himself claimed in an interview that the name Henry was taken from the secular news column in the newspaper, and the initial O. was chosen as the simplest letter. He told one of the newspapers that O. stands for Olivier (the French name for Olivier), and indeed, he published several stories there under the name Olivier Henry. According to other sources, this is the name of a famous French pharmacist. Another hypothesis was put forward by the writer and scientist Guy Davenport: “Oh. Henry" is nothing more than an abbreviation of the name of the prison where the author was imprisoned - Oh io Peniten tiary. His first short story under this pseudonym, Whistler Dick's Christmas Present, published in 1899 in McClure's Magazine, was written in prison.
O. Henry's first book of short stories, Cabbages and Kings, was published in 1904. It was followed by The four million (1906), The trimmed Lamp (1907), The Heart West (Heart of the West, 1907), The Voice of the City (1908), The Gentle Grafter (1908), Roads of Destiny (1909), Favorites (Options, 1909), Exact Cases (Strictly Business, 1910) and Whirlpools (Whirligigs, 1910).
At the end of his life he suffered from cirrhosis of the liver and diabetes. The writer died on June 5, 1910 in New York.
The collection "Postscripts" (Postscripts), published after the death of O. Henry, included feuilletons, sketches and humorous notes written by him for the newspaper "Post" (Houston, Texas, 1895-1896). In total, O. Henry wrote 273 stories, the complete collection of his works is 18 volumes.
Features of creativity
O. Henry occupies an exceptional place in American literature as a master of the genre of "short story" (short-story). Before his death, O. Henry expressed his intention to move on to a more complex genre - to the novel (“everything that I have written so far is just pampering, a test of the pen, compared to what I will write in a year”).
In creativity, however, these moods did not manifest themselves in any way, and O. Henry remained an organic artist of the "small" genre, the story. It is no coincidence, of course, that during this period the writer first began to be interested in social problems and revealed his negative attitude towards bourgeois society (Jennings "Through the Darkness with O. Henry").
The heroes of O. Henry are diverse: millionaires, cowboys, speculators, clerks, laundresses, bandits, financiers, politicians, writers, artists, artists, workers, engineers, firefighters - replace each other. A skilled plot designer, O. Henry does not show the psychological side of what is happening, the actions of his characters do not receive deep psychological motivation, which further enhances the unexpectedness of the finale.
O. Henry is not the first original master"short story", he only developed this genre, in its main features already established in the work of T. B. Aldrich (Thomas Bailey Aldrich, 1836-1907). The originality of O. Henry was manifested in the brilliant use of jargon, sharp words and expressions, and in the general colorfulness of the dialogues.
Already during the life of the writer, the “short story” in his style began to degenerate into a scheme, and by the 1920s it turned into a purely commercial phenomenon: the “method” of its production was taught in colleges and universities, numerous manuals were published, etc.
American writers of the interwar period (Sh. Anderson, T. Dreiser, B. Hecht) countered the vapidity of O. Henry's epigones with rich psychological novels.
O. Henry Award
Eight years after his death, the O. Henry Prize was established in memory of the writer

Tale of the Dirty Ten

Money speaks. But you might think that in New York the voice of an old ten-dollar bill sounds like a barely audible whisper? Well, great, skip, if you like, past the ears told sotto voce autobiography of a stranger. If you love the roar of John D.'s checkbook erupting from a bullhorn roaming the streets, you're in business. Just do not forget that even a small coin sometimes does not go into your pocket for a word. The next time you slip an extra silver quarter to the grocer's clerk, so that he weighs out the owner's goods on the march, read the words above the lady's head first. A sharp retort, isn't it?

I am a 1901 ten-dollar note. You may have seen these in the hands of someone you know. On the front I have an American bison, erroneously called a buffalo by fifty or sixty million Americans. On the sides are the heads of Captain Lewis and Captain Clark. On the back side in the center of the stage stands, gracefully perched on a greenhouse plant, either Freedom, or Ceres, or Maxine Elliot.

For information about me, please contact: paragraph 3. 588, amended bylaws. If you decide to change me, Uncle Sam will lay out ten ringing full-weight coins for you on the counter - really, I don’t know if it’s silver, gold, lead or iron.

I'm talking a little confused, you really forgive - do you forgive? I knew it, thank you - after all, even a nameless bill causes a kind of servile awe, a desire to please, doesn't it? You see, we, dirty money, are almost completely deprived of the opportunity to polish our speech. I have never met an educated and well-mannered person whose ten would have been delayed for a longer period than it takes to run to the nearest culinary shop. For a six-year-old, I have a very refined and lively manner. I repay my debts as regularly as those who see off the dead in last way. How many masters I did not serve! But I once happened to admit my ignorance, and before whom? In front of an old, shabby and untidy five - a silver certificate. We met her in a fat, foul-smelling butcher's purse.

Hey you Indian chief's daughter, I say, stop groaning. Don't you understand that it's time to take you out of circulation and reprint? Only an 1899 issue, what do you look like?

You seem to be thinking, since you are a buffalo, you are supposed to crackle incessantly, ”the five answered. "And you'd be ripped apart if you were kept under a Fildepers and a garter all day, when the temperature in the shop never drops below eighty-five."

Never heard of those wallets, I said. - Who put you there?

Saleswoman.

What is a saleswoman? I had to ask.

Your sister will not know this until the golden age for their sister comes, - answered the five.

Look, lady! She doesn't like Fildepers. But they would have stuck you behind a cotton one, as they did with me, and pestered you all day with factory dust, so that this lady painted on me with a cornucopia even sneezed, what would you sing then?

This conversation took place the day after my arrival in New York. I was sent to a Brooklyn bank by one of their Pennsylvania branches in a pack of ten like me. Since then, I have not had to make acquaintance with the wallets that my five-dollar and two-dollar interlocutors visited. They hid me only behind silk ones.

I was lucky. I didn't sit still. Sometimes I changed hands twenty times a day. I knew the underside of every deal; I again took care of every pleasure of my hosts. On Saturdays, I was invariably shoved onto the bar. Dozens are always thrown, but dollar bills or twos are folded into a square and modestly pushed towards the bartender. Gradually, I got a taste of it and strove to either get drunk on whiskey or lick a martini or Manhattan that had spilled there from the counter. Once, a peddler who was driving a cart along the street put me in a plump, greasy bundle, which he carried in the pocket of his overalls. I thought I would have to forget about the real conversion, since the future general store owner lived on eight cents a day, limiting his menu to dog meat and onions. But then the peddler somehow made a mistake by placing his cart too close to the intersection, and I was saved. I am still grateful to the policeman who helped me out. He traded for me at a tobacconist near the Bowery, where there was a gambling. And the head of the police station took me out into the world, who himself was lucky that evening. A day later, he got me drunk in a restaurant on Broadway. I was also sincerely glad to be back in my native land, like one of the Astors when they see the lights of Charing Cross.

A dirty ten doesn't have to sit idle on Broadway. Once I was called alimony, and they folded me up and put me in a suede purse full of dimes. They boastfully recalled the stormy summer season in Osining, where the three daughters of the hostess now and then fished out one of them for ice cream. However, these childish revels are just storms in a teacup, if you compare them with the hurricanes that our denomination bills are subjected to in the terrible hour of increased demand for lobsters.

I first heard of dirty money when the adorable youngster Van Somebody dumped me and a few of my girlfriends in exchange for a handful of chips.

Around midnight, a rollicking and stout fellow with a fat monk's face and the eyes of a janitor who had just received a surcharge rolled me and many other banknotes into a tight roll - a "piece", as money polluters say.

Put down five hundred for me,” he said to the banker, “and see to it that everything is in order, Charlie. I want to walk along the wooded valley, while the light of the moon plays on the rocky cliff. If one of us gets stuck, keep in mind, in the upper left compartment of my safe are sixty thousand dollars, wrapped in a humorous magazine supplement. Keep your nose to the wind, but do not throw words into the wind. Bye.

I was between two twenties - gold certificates. One of them told me:

Hey you, "new" old lady, lucky you. You will see something interesting. Today Old Jack is going to turn the whole Beefsteak into crumbs.

O. Henry is an outstanding American writer, prose writer, author of popular short stories, characterized by subtle humor and unexpected endings.

William Sidney Porter was born September 11, 1862 in Greensboro, North Carolina. At the age of three, he lost his mother, who died of tuberculosis. Later he came under the care of his paternal aunt. After school, he studied to be a pharmacist, worked in a pharmacy with his uncle. Three years later he left for Texas, tried different professions - worked on a ranch, served in the land administration. Then he worked as a cashier and accountant in a bank in the Texas city of Austin. The first literary experiments date back to the early 1880s. In 1894, Porter began publishing the humorous weekly Rolling Stone in Austin, filling it almost entirely with his own essays, jokes, poems, and drawings. A year later, the magazine closed, at the same time Porter was fired from the bank and sued in connection with the shortage, although it was reimbursed by his family. After being accused of embezzlement, he hid from law enforcement officers for six months in Honduras, then in South America. Upon his return to the United States, he was convicted and sent to the Columbus prison in Ohio, where he spent three years (1898-1901).

In prison, Porter worked in the infirmary and wrote stories, looking for a pseudonym for himself. In the end, he settled on the O. Henry variant (often spelled incorrectly like the Irish surname - O'Henry). Its origin is not entirely clear. The writer himself claimed in an interview that the name Henry was taken from the secular news column in the newspaper, and the initial O. was chosen as the simplest letter. He told one of the newspapers that O. stands for Olivier (the French name for Olivier), and indeed, he published several stories there under the name Olivier Henry. According to others, this is the name of the famous French pharmacist Etienne Henry, whose medical reference book was popular at that time. Another hypothesis was put forward by the writer and scientist Guy Davenport: “Oh. Henry" is nothing more than an abbreviation of the name of the prison where the author was imprisoned - Ohio Penitentiary.

His first short story under this pseudonym, Whistler Dick's Christmas Present, published in 1899 in Mc Clure's Magazine, was written in prison. The only novel by O. Henry - "Kings and Cabbage" - was published in 1904. It was followed by collections of short stories: "Four Million" (1906), "Burning Lamp" (1907), "Heart of the West" (1907), "Voice of the City" (1908), "The Noble Rogue" (1908), "Ways of Fate" (1909), "Favorites" (1909), "Exact Cases" (1910) and "The Rotation" (1910).

O. Henry occupies an exceptional place in American literature as a master of the "short story" genre. Before his death, O. Henry expressed his intention to move on to a more complex genre - to the novel: Everything that I have written so far is just pampering, a test of the pen, compared to what I will write in a year. In creativity, however, these moods did not manifest themselves in any way, and O. Henry remained an organic artist of the "small" genre, the story. It is no coincidence, of course, that during this period the writer first began to be interested in social problems and revealed his negative attitude towards bourgeois society. The heroes of O. Henry are diverse: millionaires, cowboys, speculators, clerks, laundresses, bandits, financiers, politicians, writers, artists, artists, workers, engineers, firemen - replace each other. A skilled plot designer, O. Henry does not show the psychological side of what is happening, the actions of his characters do not receive deep psychological motivation, which further enhances the unexpectedness of the finale. O. Henry is not the first original master of the "short story", he only developed this genre. The originality of O. Henry was manifested in the brilliant use of jargon, sharp words and expressions, and in the general colorfulness of the dialogues. Already during the life of the writer, the “short story” in his style began to degenerate into a scheme, and by the 1920s it turned into a purely commercial phenomenon: the “method” of its production was taught in colleges and universities, numerous manuals were published, etc.

O. Henry Award - Annual literary prize behind best story(short story). Established in 1918 and named after American writer O.Henry, famous master genre. The prize was first presented in 1919. The award is given to stories by American and Canadian authors published in American and Canadian magazines. The stories are published in The O. Henry Prize Stories. Winners in different years became Truman Capote, William Faulkner, Flannery O'Connor and others.

Literary award "Gifts of the Magi" - a competition for a short story in Russian, following the plot formula of the well-known story of the same name by O. Henry "love + voluntary sacrifice + unexpected denouement". The competition was established in 2010 by the editors of Russian-language publications published in the United States “ New magazine” and “New Russian word”, the prose writer Vadim Yarmolinets became the coordinator of the competition. Despite its New York origins, the competition, according to Yarmolinets, was intended to appeal to Russian writers from all over the world.