Feasting the Heart : Fifty-Two Commentaries for the Air

by Reynolds Price

• ISBN13: 9780743203692
• ISBN10: 0743203690
• Format: Hardcover
• Copyright: 2000-10-17
• Publisher: Scribner

Summary

In the fall of 1993, Alice Winkler of National Public Radio's "Morning Edition" asked Reynolds Price to write a short story for a Christmas morning broadcast. This assignment would result in NPR's inviting Price to join its varied group of commentators

Author Biography

Reynolds Price was born in Macon, North Carolina in 1933. Educated in the public schools of his native state, he earned an A.B. summa cum laude from Duke University; and in 1955 he traveled as a Rhodes Scholar to Merton College, Oxford University to study English literature. After three years and the B.Litt. degree, he returned to Duke where he continues in his fifth decade of teaching. He is James B. Duke Professor of English.

In 1962 his novel A Long and Happy Life received the William Faulkner Award for a notable first novel and has never been out of print. Since, he has published more than thirty books. Among them, his novel Kate Vaiden received the National Book Critics Circle Award in 1986. In 1989 he published the memoir Clear Pictures. His Collected Stories appeared in 1993, his Collected Poems in 1997; in 1995 he completed his trilogy A Great Circle, which consists of the novels The Surface of Earth, The Source of Light, and The Promise of Rest. He has recently published his first novel for young readers, A Perfect Friend. He is a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters, and his books have appeared in sixteen languages.

Table of Contents

Preface	1	(8)
A Christmas In Rome	9	(6)
Book Tour	15	(3)
The Last Great Weeper	18	(3)
Birthplace	21	(3)
James Dean, Still Here	24	(3)
The Ghost-Writer In The Cellar	27	(3)
Oral History	30	(3)
A Hole In The Earth	33	(3)
Teachers	36	(3)
Wheelchair Travel	39	(4)
A Shallow Past	43	(3)
Eye Level To A Wheelchair	46	(4)
Private Worship	50	(3)
Gone With The Wind And Its Scarlett	53	(4)
Native Orphans	57	(4)
My Tolerance Problem	61	(3)
A Single Death Among Many	64	(4)
The Mad Inventor	68	(3)
Summer Vacation	71	(4)
A Full Day	75	(3)
Lucky Catches	78	(3)
Casting Bread	81	(4)
Mri Time	85	(3)
Time-Ridden	88	(3)
Father and History	91	(3)
The Lucky Child's Christmas	94	(3)
Summer On The Deep	97	(3)
A Standing Reader	100	(3)
A Gallop Down The Homestretch	103	(3)
Portable Music	106	(2)
A Motto	108	(3)
The Gazelle of Israel	111	(4)
The Memory Drench: World War II*	115	(3)
Forty and Counting	118	(3)
Crossing Genders	121	(3)
Being Reviewed	124	(3)
England In The Fifties	127	(4)
The Stage, Years Ago*	131	(3)
On The Stone	134	(3)
My Ghost Stories	137	(3)
The Old Man In Here With Me	140	(2)
Dolls In A Man's Life	142	(3)
The Great Imagination Heist	145	(4)
Joke-Telling Lessons	149	(3)
What My Parents Didn't Tell Me	152	(3)
The Commonest Demon	155	(3)
With Ida	158	(3)
A Perfect Dinner	161	(3)
Keeping An Eye Out	164	(3)
The Single Corps	167	(5)
Eloquent Letters	172	(4)
A Premature Farewell	176

Excerpts

Chapter 1: A Christmas in Rome I was twenty-two years old and still hadn't spent a Christmas away from home and family. That day though I was half laid back in unmarred sun on a bench in the one true Colosseum -- Italy, Rome, December 25th 1955. Europe had only begun to believe that the devastation of Hitler's war might be survived, and even in Rome the sight of a winter tourist was rare as a failure of courtesy.I'd left my room and made my way down through the city past ruins posing in vain for their picture -- today they were empty of all but cats and ghosts of assorted psychotic Caesars, woolly Vandals and Visigoths. I'd even walked the length of the Forum and on across to the Colosseum with no sure glimpse of anybody as lost and foreign to the place as I and not a sign of holly and gifts.I'd passed a few couples, sporting that brand of Italian child who easily seems the world's most loved; and some of the parents had bowed at my greeting. But the Colosseum was likewise empty of all but me and one of the bent old ladies who then sold tickets to everything Roman, toilets included.So there, lone as Robinson Crusoe, I had one question -- was I lonely in this grand place on such a high love-feast? It seemed the right question for a journeyman writer. I shut my eyes to the broad arena that drank the blood of so many thousands and let the Mediterranean sun burn its health deep into my bones.The answer was No. I was happy. I'd got the gene from both my parents; and despite a normally bleak adolescence, had been sheepishly happy most of my days -- sheepish because I wondered still if smiles were the kit for an artist's life. Even if I was here today on one of the world's great magnets alone, I knew I was backed with a travel grant; my first short stories were down on paper; more ideas were ticking in me; and -- best -- in only three more weeks I'd join my first requited love who was skiing in Austria.What but love had I ever wanted more than the freedom I tasted now? So I sat for the better part of an hour in those two lights -- the sun and the fierce shine that leaked from my triumph. I was already well down the road to my work and my free choice of love. If another human being entered the Colosseum with me, I failed to see. So the place itself, for all its gore, conspired to keep my joy pure as radium, fueling my life with dangerous rays.High as I was, I managed to nod awhile; and when I woke a half hour later, I knew the sound of a distant bell had brought me back; its toll had triggered the chill I felt. The light in the midst of the arena was dimming; and my mind spoke out, strong as the bell -- What are you up to this far from home on this day, of all days, and lonesome as any hawk on a thermal? What can you learn here that you don't already know in your bones? Get the hell on home.If I'd seen or heard in the next two minutes the least reminder of the day at home -- an indoor tree, some merciful laughter -- I might have hailed the nearest cab and tried to board a westbound plane. But the guts of the Colosseum dimmed further till all I saw was purple murk -- the locker rooms of gladiators, holding pens for the beasts and martyrs. And I knew I needed this strange lone time in whole new worlds; so when I stood to enter the day, I turned -- not due north back to my room but south toward the Circus Maximus, flat on a plain below the devastated mansions of the Palatine Hill.The filmBen-Hurwith its chariot race was still four years ahead in time; but my high-school Latin book had showed the racecourse at its clamorous pitch -- the oval track, the island round which the horses had turned, the ranks of the seats. I stepped across one strand of wire and walked to where the island had stood -- no visible remnant of marble or horseflesh, brawn or fury. The ground was littered with modern paper, though there were signs of recent digging -- the earth was freshly turned and spon