William Humphrey > Quotes

“As always, we two have fallen to reminiscing of Blossom Prairie and our life there before my father died, telling stories by the hour which both of us have heard and told so often now that it is the rhythm which stirs us more than the words, our tongues thickening steadily until the accent is barely intelligible to my Yankee wife, who listens amused, amazed, bewildered, bored, and sometimes appalled.”
― William Humphrey, The Collected Stories of William Humphrey

“He breakfasted as always on Saturday on sour grapes, that was to say on the art-show reviews in the Friday edition of the New York Times. This he did so as to fortify himself against the snubs and brushoffs awaiting them and to scoff at the trendy world they wooed. He finished his reading and made like a chimpanzee with his lip and forefinger. Crumpling the paper, he commented, “Wrap tomorrow’s fish.” Then, “With today’s painting if you’re not insulted you’ve missed the point. The situation has brought me to side with Herman Goering: ‘When I hear the word culture I reach for my pistol.”
― William Humphrey, September Song: Stories

“They understood each other, the only ones who could. French was a folly they shared. “Speak some to me,” she said. He hesitated for a moment, then he intoned: “Les sanglots longs Des violons De l’automne Blessent mon coeur D’une langueur Monotone.” The singsong cadence, the rhymes, the pitch of it brought to her mind the melancholy call of the mourning dove. When the recitation ended, the words—if words they were and not musical notes—lingered on in a withdrawing echo. Wrapped in revery, she could say nothing for a while. Then she said, “Beautiful. That is beautiful. To think there is a country where people sound like that! Tell me now, what does it mean?” He translated. Again she was silent for a while before saying, “How sad. How beautiful.” She had him recite it so many times over the next weeks that she learned it by heart.”
― William Humphrey, September Song: Stories