17th
Sherwood Anderson’s Naperville, Illinois
About a century ago, it seems, a certain type of American writer liked to explore the grotesque underside of the idealized small-town heartland.
Today, I think, he could do no better than to look at the materially secure, socially transient, spiritually listless exurbs.
The black clouds settled down and it began to rain. I wanted to go at a terrible speed, to drive on and on forever. I wanted to get out of town, out of my clothes, out of my marriage, out of my body, out of everything. I almost killed the horse, making him run, and when he could not run any more I got out of the buggy and ran afoot into the darkness until I fell and hurt my side. I wanted to run away from everything but I wanted to run towards something too. Don’t you see, dear, how it was?
