DAYS IN THE CITY broke into parts. When his mother woke him he asked to sleep another five minutes and returned to his dream or began a new one. After she woke him again, it took fifteen minutes to wash, dress, and eat breakfast; ten minutes to walk to school, through the garden, breaking off a boxwood leaf to chew, down slate steps to the street, past the tennis courts, ice-skating rink, the dented painted-iron single-car garages, the colored people’s apartment house, the school playing field, to the school-and-church building. If he was early he could stand outside and talk. The rule was to be in the classroom by nine o’clock, where he would pledge allegiance to the flag, say prayers, unpack books, arrange pencils, pen, eraser, ruler. Then there followed an hour of teaching; and a twenty-minute recess, during which the boys played touch football and the girls jumped rope or talked. Sometimes he bought penny candy through the iron fence from an old man on the street. Then another hour or so of teaching and dismissal at noon. He walked home, buying a newspaper, had lunch on the living-room floor, read the funnies, and listened to a radio serial set in a general store. By one he was back in class for two more hours of teaching, less fifteen minutes if everyone had behaved. He was home and changed and out on the street with his friends by three-fifteen and played till a quarter to six. Dinner went from six to seven, during which he, his mother, father, and brother talked about the day. He listened to the radio from seven to seven-thirty; did homework, or nothing, in his room till nine; listened to more radio with his parents. Then pajamas, teeth, pee, and bed. Saturdays and Sundays were made of larger, odd-shaped parts. In high school there was more schoolwork and homework than in grammar school; and what had been weekday playtime was now taken up with the drama and debating societies, the school literary magazine and newspaper. On one Christmas vacation he worked for the post office, as high school boys did; he was bored by delivering packages from a truck for eight hours and was surprised at how long the time seemed. He was tired at day’s end and went to sleep right after supper. A month later for the week’s work he received a check for eighteen dollars and change, which he spent on a grand date with his girl friend. In college there was less schoolwork and more homework than in high school; the afternoon and evening were never long enough to do the reading, and sometimes he stayed up all night to finish his assignments: he finished The Republic and On the Nature of Things at dawn and was so excited by the experiences he could not sleep in the few hours left before classes. In the army he and his friends sometimes stayed up all night, drinking near beer, talking, and playing cards—they were pleased to deny the army fresh bodies in the morning. What was most surprising about army life was that nothing he was told to do was for himself: it was the opposite of school. After he was discharged schoolwork seemed a luxury, also unimportant. What he wanted was to get a job and be married: having his own money, wife, and home would be his true life. After two years he had an insight, which he told to his wife: “I treat you better than I treat anyone else, you treat me worse,” by which he meant that she was the most important person in his life and that she, being cowardly in her dealings with relatives, friends, and even storekeepers, saved her bad humor for him. He took to sleeping when she was awake and staying up after she had gone to bed, when he would drink, read, and write fiction or letters to friends. Raising children was so hard that they put away their differences for a few years, but when they had energy again the problems were worse. Near the end of the marriage they met mainly at dinner, and otherwise kept out of one another’s way. After he left home, time seemed wasted except when he was working or writing. He drank a lot, which made time pass meaninglessly; sometimes listening to music or reading (well-written ephemera particularly) settled his mind like iron filings on a paper over a magnet. When he fell in love time with the beloved was worth more than time without her; however, when the woman became discontented her complaints destroyed his joy at her presence. He will put off breaking with her for several years by going back to his old psychiatrist. Living alone will not be so bad as it had been, nor will sex have such a hold on him. As he grows older without serious illness he occasionally will be grateful that he escaped early destruction and midway disillusion. Near the end of his life he will be able to do whatever he wants with his time, civilization and nature having lost interest in him.