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Updated: June 4, 2025
"Why, Razorre ... my dear, dear boy," calling me by my nickname and taking another tack ... he laid his hand gently on my shoulder and gave me a deep, burning look of compassionate rebuke ... though I saw fear flickering back of it all....
"Oh, I know who you are ... you're Razorre ... father wrote me a lot about you ... when I lived East ... you were one of his pet 'nuts'!" We sat there and conversed a long time. She talked of Socrates and Plato as if she had broken bread with them ... she discussed science, history, art as if wisdom and understanding were nearer her desire than anything else....
"Either the University of Chicago, or further west." "I can give you commutation as far as Chicago." "I cannot accept it." "You must, Razorre." A week from then I left. I went up to Mrs. Tighe's room to say good-bye. Awkwardly and with the bearlike roughness of excessive timidity I put my arms about her, drew her to me tentatively.
"Why, Razorre, I never even thought of it ... we are all a part of one community of endeavour here ... and we all give our efforts as a contribution to the Eos Idea ... I have paid you a higher compliment than merely giving you credit ... instead, I have incorporated your verse into the very body of our thought and life." His effrontery struck me silent. I told him sadly that I must now go away.
We ran away from him ... Spalton ran away from him ... "this fellow will be the death of me," he remarked to me, one afternoon, with a light of pleasure and pride in his eyes, however, at being so worshipped. "Ah, Razorre, beware of the ignorant disciple!" There was nothing Jack would not do for Spalton. He sought out opportunities and occasions for serving him.
But I insisted that I must go on and acquire a college education ... which he maintained would be a hindrance, not a help "they will iron you out, and make you a decent member of society and then, Razorre, God help the poet in you ... poets and artists should never be decent ... only the true son of Ishmael can ever write or paint," he waved.
"Hello, Razorre," he had greeted me; then he had turned to the group at his table and told them about me, I could see by their glances but in a pleasant way. The next morning I was at work in the bindery, smearing glue on the backs of unbound books. My wage was three dollars a week and "found," as they say in the West. Not much, but what did it matter?
I was rendered unhappy by this. I spoke to Spalton about it. "Why Razorre, so you have come that near to being in print?" I showed him the poems. "Yes, you have the making of a real poet in you!" A day or so after he approached me with "I'm writing a brief visit to the home of Thoreau ... how would you like to compose a poem for me, on him for the first page of the work?"
"Look here, Razorre, if you were not the biggest freak of them all, I could understand," he remarked severely.... I tried to explain how sorry I was for the way I had joined in Pfeiler's persecution ... but the master would have none of it ... he told me to look better to my conduct or he would have to expel me from the community....
"Razorre, you'll be back again ... despite its faults, they all come back to Eos."
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