For a month he had worked on these papers, scribbling them during working hours, typing and making carbons on the typewriter at the New York Cafe, distributing them by hand.
He had worked day and night. But who read them? What good had any of it done? A town this size was too big for any one man. And now he was leaving.
But where would it be this time? The names of cities called to him--Memphis, Wilmington, Gastonia, New Orleans. He would go somewhere. But not out of the South. The old restlessness and hunger were in him again. It was different this time. He did not long for open space and freedom--just the reverse. He remembered what the Negro, Copeland, had said to him, ‘Do not attempt to stand alone.’ There were times when that was best.