AP Success - AP English Literature: As I Lay Dying

In the afternoon when school was out and the last one had left with

his little dirty snuffling nose, instead of going home I would go down the hill

to the spring where I could be quiet and hate them. It would be quiet there then,

with the water bubbling up and away and the sun slanting quiet in the trees and

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the quiet smelling of damp and rotting leaves and new earth, especially in the

early spring, for it was worst then.

I could just remember how my father used to say that the reason for living

was to get ready to stay dead for a long time. And when I would have to look at

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them day after day, each with his and her secret and selfish thought, and blood

strange to each other blood and strange to mine, and think that this seemed to be the

only way I could get ready to stay dead, I would hate my father for having planned

me. I would look forward to the times when they faulted, so I could whip them.

When the switch fell I could feel it upon my flesh; when it welted and ridged it was

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my blood that ran, and I would think with each blow of the switch: Now you are

aware of me! Now I am something in your secret and selfish life, who have marked

your blood with my own forever and ever.

And so I took Anse. I saw him pass the school house three or four times before

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I learned that he was driving four miles out of his way to do it. I noticed then how he

was beginning to hump—a tall man and young—so that he looked already like a tall

bird hunched in the cold weather, on the wagon seat.

In early spring, it was worst. Sometimes I thought that I could not bear it,

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lying in bed at night with the wild darkness going north and the harking coming faint

and high and wild out of the west getting, and during the day it working seem as though

I couldn't wait for the last one to go so I could go down to the spring. And so when I

looked up that day and saw Anse standing there in his Sunday clothes, turning his hat

round and round in his hands, I said:

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"If you've got any womanfolks, why in the world dont they make you get your

hair cut?"

"Aint got none," he said. Then he said suddenly, driving his eyes at me like

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two hounds in a strange yard: "That's what I come to see you about."

And just like you hold your shoulders up," I said. "You haven't got any But

you've got a house. They tell me you've got a house and a good farm. And you live

alone, doing for yourself, do you?" He just looked at me, turning the hat in his

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hands. "A new house," I said. "Are you going to get married?"

And he said again, holding his eyes to me: "That's what I come to see you

about."

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Later he told me, "I aint got no people. So that wont be no worry to you. I

don't reckon you can say the same."

"No. I have people. In Jefferson."

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His face fell a little. "Well, I got a little property. I'm forehanded; I got a

good honest name. I know how town folks are, but maybe when they talk to me . . ."

"They might listen," I said. "But they'll be hard to talk to." He was watching

my face. "They're in the cemetery."

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"But you living kin," he said. "They'll be different."

"Will they?" I said. "I dont know. I never had any other kind."