By Mark Twain
"I've struck it!" Mark Twain wrote in a 1904 letter to a chum. "And i'm going to provide it away--to you. you'll by no means know the way a lot entertainment you've misplaced till you get to dictating your autobiography." hence, after dozens of fake starts off and 1000s of pages, Twain launched into his "Final (and correct) Plan" for telling the tale of his existence. His leading edge notion--to "talk in basic terms concerning the factor which pursuits you for the moment"--meant that his concepts may possibly diversity freely. the stern guide that a lot of those texts stay unpublished for a hundred years intended that after they got here out, he will be "dead, and unaware, and indifferent," and that he was once accordingly unfastened to talk his "whole frank mind." The yr 2010 marks the a hundredth anniversary of Twain's demise. In party of this significant milestone and in honor of the adored culture of publishing Mark Twain's works, UC Press is proud to supply for the 1st time Mark Twain's uncensored autobiography in its entirety and precisely as he left it. This significant literary occasion brings to readers, admirers, and students the 1st of 3 volumes and offers Mark Twain's actual and unsuppressed voice, brimming with humor, principles, and reviews, and conversing basically from the grave as he meant.
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Additional info for Autobiography of Mark Twain, Vol. 1
At the hotel, though my voice still shook, I enquired about a room for the night and timidly asked to be awakened early in the morning to catch the Adelaide Express. ‘Righto son, I’ll wake ye,’ the proprietor nodded, as he gave me a candle to light me to bed and showed me to my room. With the last vestige of strength I shut the door, then stretched myself on the narrow iron bed hoping for the blessed oblivion of sleep. My whole body ached. My head was splitting, and the warm sultry air flowing in through the open window did nothing to relieve the sweat trickling down my face, my back, and my swollen arm, which throbbed all the more for the heat.
Thick black smoke billowed from the locomotive, carrying with it thousands of minute particles of gritty soot which settled on the ledges, over the seats, on one’s clothes and face, and filled the air with a slightly acrid smell that tickled the nostrils and left a faint taste of bitterness on the tongue. I rather liked it, for it gave me a sense of adventure to see those clouds of smoke floating past, and into, the open window of my second-class compartment. I shared it with two youngish men, who were quite oblivious to my presence, so absorbed were they in conversation about their experiences with women.
Yet I had to remain silent under his volley of abuse, polishing the harness for dear life, petrified, my heart thumping, knowing full well that he would invent an excuse to use that pipe. Nor did I have long to wait. I was kept late at the post office a couple of days later, and when I rushed with buckets of water down to the stable I nearly collided with my stepfather just coming out, with the hosepipe in his hand. ‘Come here, you lying little bastard. Look at this tub! Half as big again as the old one, and still no water for the cow,’ he roared, as he brandished the hose angrily at me, his drunken face livid with rage, his huge body swaying unsteadily.
Autobiography of Mark Twain, Vol. 1 by Mark Twain