Spring 1947 • Vol. IX No. 2 Fiction |

The Railroad

The years I spent in the control tower were the very best of my life. I look back at them, think of them constantly. It is as though what I did enclosed up there with the switchboard, the ticker tape and the telegraph, the lighted map, the squares of colored glass flashing on the chart, was not work at all in the external sense of job or occupation. It was rather a work of inwardness, as when we say a life's work or a work of love. A sculptor would know what I mean—imagine that he has a mass of clay before him and it feels not sticky and cold but warm and alive to his touch as he works on it, shaping it part by part, giving it just the form he wants although he does not know what the final form shall be . . . . My life was never so much my own, never so completely the work of my own hands. The tower was a little house of corrugated iron, high up in the girders above the tracks. It could be reached only by a vertical ladder, which was dangerous to climb on wet or icy nights. I

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The Party

By Isaac Rosenfeld

The years I spent in the control tower were the very best of my life. I look back at them, think of them constantly. It is as though what I […]

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