The Silence of History

The Silence of History

The Silence of History

The Silence of History


His name was Edward Arthur Ryan, and in July of 1926, he was twenty-two years old.

He had looked forward to this summer with dreams and hopes that had sometimes been like sensitive nerves. But his dreams and hopes were-where? They were like the sigh of soft winds in trees of the park. A sighing song, monotonously sad, in the beaming sunlight, and the summer sun shimmering, winking, dancing gold in fragments upon the calm waters of the lagoon. Eddie was sluggish in an aftermath of accomplishment at the University that had been far beyond his expectations. Nine out of eleven courses were A. Nine sixes equaled fifty-four. Two fours were eight. Total sixty-two. Divided by eleven gave five and seven elevenths grade points. That's what he had accomplished. But his record won him little praise.

His good friend, Peter Moore, who lived next door, had congratulated him. Peter had also said that he merited high praise.

Praise was soft on your vanity, but that was all.

You liked it, praise.

He liked it. Yes, thought Eddie, he liked it-praise.

--Let 'em praise me when I'm dead.

Eddie had said this to himself several times before, during recent months. But he didn't, with certainty, believe that he actually meant it. No, not exactly, not strictly, because even though he might be giving way to the weakness of his vanity, he could relish it, and two times over, because of his scorn.

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