Autumn 1953 • Vol. XV No. 4 FictionOctober 1, 1953 |

The Boat

No one was moving but for William, and they paid him little attention. He came, now, down through the trees, and behind them, very carefully, to a huge rock that overlooked the water. The boat was too far out to see who was in it, but the sails looked beautiful, tight out and driving the boat in a series of chopped lunges. He climbed up on the rock, took a stick he found there, and leaning out, dabbled it in the water. He wrote his own name three times, then his wife's, then those of his three children. Away off up the field Mrs. Peter had talked of the weather, and she repeated herself, endlessly. The heat came, the sun rising very high and white in the sky, and beyond the field the trees in the orchard looked wilted and dull. She cried. Her face grew very tiny and alone, and with a sense of relief the other man, her friend, bent over with a white handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. He implored her to have reason, the conversation had been so tiring, and if they were to be tog

Already have an account? Login

Join KR for even more to read.

Register for a free account to read five free pieces a month from our current issue and digital archive.
Register for Free and Read This Piece

Or become a subscriber today and get complete, immediate access to our digital archives at every subscription level.

Read More


Your free registration with Kenyon review incudes access to exclusive content, early access to program registration, and more.


With your support, we’ll continue 
to cultivate talent and publish extraordinary literature from diverse voices around the world.