Take Me Home

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Henry Harper was a young man who lived in two rooms above a secondhand bookstore. All he wanted to do in the world was to write, but he was forced by circumstances to do other things besides. He was naturally forced by the same circumstances to do most of his writing at times when sane and sensible men are sleeping or making love or getting drunk or expressing their sense and sanity in some other accepted way.

That’s what Henry had been doing this particular night, which was the night of a Saturday. He had been writing a book that he had hoped someday to finish, and he had been, in a way, a little drunk himself. He had been drunk for hours on words, but now he was sober, and nothing he had done was good, and nothing would be good that he would ever do. His head ached, and he was filled with sodden despair. It was, he saw, three o’clock in the morning. Since it was impossible to sleep, he went down the street to the Greek’s for a cup of coffee.

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