ut also to release his affection for--the world
of small-town America. The dream of an unconditional
personal freedom, that hazy American version of utopia,
would remain central throughout Anderson's life and
work. It was an inspiration; it was a delusion.

In 1916 and 1917 Anderson published two novels mostly
written in Elyria, Windy McPherson's Son and Marching
Men, both by now largely forgotten. They show patches
of talent but also a crudity of thought and
unsteadiness of language. No one reading these novels
was likely to suppose that its author could soon
produce anything as remarkable as Winesburg, Ohio.
Occasionally there occurs in a writer's career a
sudden, almost mysterious leap of talent, beyond
explanation, perhaps beyond any need for explanation.

In 1915-16 Anderson had begun to write and in 1919 he
published the stories that comprise Winesburg, Ohio,
stories that form, in sum, a sort of loosely-strung
episodic novel. The book was an immediate critical
success, and soon Anderson was being ranked as a
significant literary figure. In 1921 the distinguished
literary magazine The Dial awarded him its first annual
literary prize of $2,000, the significance of which is
perhaps best understood if one also knows that the
second recipient was T. S. Eliot. But Anderson's moment
of glory was brief, no more than a decade, and sadly,
the remaining years until his death in 1940 were marked
by a sharp decline in his literary standing. Somehow,
except for an occasional story like the haunting "Death
in the Woods," he was unable to repeat or surpass his
early success. Still, about Winesburg, Ohio and a small
number of stories like "The Egg" and "The Man Who
Became a Woman" there has rarely been any critical
doubt.

* * *

No sooner did Winesburg, Ohio make its appearance than
a number of critical labels were fixed on it: the
revolt against the village, the espousal of sexual
freedom, the deepening of American realism. Such tags
may once have had their point, but by now they seem
dated and stale. The revolt against the village (about
which Anderson was always ambivalent) has faded into
history. The espousal of sexual freedom would soon be
exceeded in boldness by other writers. And as for the
effort to place Winesburg, Ohio in a tradition of
American realism, that now seems dubious. Only rarely
is the object of Anderson's stories social
verisimilitude, or the "photographing" of familiar