Horton Foote (1916–2009)

It’s 1918, the height of United States involvement in World War I – Liberty Bonds are sold, German immigrants are suspected as traitors or saboteurs, young men everywhere succumb to the patriotism and propaganda and enlist. In a small Texas town, Horace Robedaux feels the pressure – he doesn’t want to leave his young wife Elizabeth and their young child Jenny – but Elizabeth’s can’t-do-anything-right little brother is constantly talking about the war, and Elizabeth’s stern father, who opposed the marriage initially, now has plans to take care of his daughter and the child so Horace can fight for his country. But the influenza epidemic sweeping the town (and the nation) may change everyone’s plans. (fonte:Imdb)… (mais)

Carrie Watts is living the twilight of her life trapped in an apartment in 1940’s Houston, Texas with a controlling daughter-in-law and a hen-pecked son. Her fondest wish — just once before she dies — is to revisit Bountiful, the small Texas town of her youth which she still refers to as “home.” The trouble is her son, Ludie, is too concerned for her health to allow her to travel alone and her petty daughter-in-law, Jessie Mae, insists they don’t have money to squander on bus tickets. This prompts “escape” attempts each month which coincide with the arrival of Mrs. Watts’ Social Security check. Then, Mrs. Watts makes a successful escape and last trip home. (fonte: Imdb)… (mais)

This might be the best short story I have ever read. Up until now, I would have named [b:A Rose for Emily|2984286|A Rose for Emily|William Faulkner|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1348758685l/2984286._SY75_.jpg|62090508] if asked for Faulkner's best short story, henceforth, my answer will be Tomorrow.

I cried at the end of this one. I cried for how cruel life can be and how the best instincts of a man can be used against him. And, I wondered if it was better to have loved and seen what Fentry had seen or never to have known love at all, for any other human being on earth.

Faulkner was in his best descriptive form:

We followed him to the gallery, where a plump, white-haired old lady in a clean gingham sunbonnet and dress and a clean white apron sat in a low rocking chair, shelling field peas into a wooden bowl.

Can you not just see both the woman and the gallery on which she sits?

And, he was at his best philosophically, as well:

But Uncle Gavin says it don’t take many words to tell the sum of any human experience; that somebody has already done it in eight: He was born, he suffered, and he died.

That might make a headstone for any of us.

… (mais)