Enoch lived in the house with his mother in those days and when he was a young boy went to school at the Winesburg High School.
When he was twenty-one years old Enoch went to New York City and was a city man for fifteen years.
In New York City, when he first went there to live and before he became confused and disconcerted by the facts of life, Enoch went about a good deal with young men.
The story of Enoch is in fact the story of a room almost more than it is the story of a man.
And so these people gathered and smoked ciga- rettes and talked and Enoch Robinson, the boy from the farm near Winesburg, was there.
That is the kind of thing young Enoch Robinson trembled to say to the guests who came into his room when he was a young fellow in New York City, but he always ended by saying nothing.
Enoch talked about the advisability of the govern- ment's owning and operating the railroads and the man gave him a cigar.
Last time he had remembered their names, but now he had forgotten them utterly, chiefly because Enoch was the personage he liked best in the whole of the Old Testament, and Enoch's translation to heaven was connected in his mind with a whole long train of thought, in which he became absorbed now while he gazed with fascinated eyes at his father's watch-chain and a half-unbuttoned button on his waistcoat.
But Enoch had not died, and so it followed that everyone did not die.
If I may state my intellectual position I am, so far as concerns things purely terrestrial, somewhat in the position which Enoch
I, whom you behold in these black garments of the priesthood -- I, who ascend the sacred desk, and turn my pale face heavenward, taking upon myself to hold communion in your behalf with the Most High Omniscience -- I, in whose daily life you discern the sanctity of Enoch
-- I, whose footsteps, as you suppose, leave a gleam along my earthly track, whereby the Pilgrims that shall come after me may be guided to the regions of the blest -- I, who have laid the hand of baptism upon your children -- I, who have breathed the parting prayer over your dying friends, to whom the Amen sounded faintly from a world which they had quitted -- I, your pastor, whom you so reverence and trust, am utterly a pollution and a lie
Fuller he made a model o' the old Ohio, and she's to Salem museum now.