The three most recent authors added to my catalogue of half-decent American writers are O. Henry, Jack London, and Ambrose Bierce. As Dr. Gary North likes to say, we have entered a new regime. In this case, that quote pertains to 19th-century American authors. This section first began with the nonsensical writings of James Fenimore Cooper, and then it transitioned into the sensical but immoral Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne, which by far took the cake for the most evil book I have ever read. After a brief stint gagging on Henry D. Thoreau’s deification of “Nature” in Walking, we finally arrived at something tolerable and even delightful: Mark Twain. But if that were not already a justifiable reason to shout for joy, he was followed up by arguably the greatest American author of the 19th century: O. Henry.
Of the three gentlemen comprising this week’s English-class buffett, O. Henry reigns victorious and earns a special spot in my heart for two reasons: the digestibility of his short stories, and the morals behind them. Throughout O. Henry’s short stories, especially Gift of the Magi, he artfully balances the line between solid morality and interesting entertainment. For example, Nathaniel Hawthorne does a marvelous job of keeping the reader’s attention in The Scarlet Letter, but the book’s conclusion is disgusting. After Pastor Dimmesdale is finally exposed for having an affair with Hester Prynn, he accuses Hester’s husband of committing the greater sin because he used occult powers to fill him with guilt for the sin. Then Dimmesdale finally cries out at his death, “Be true! Be True! Be true! Show freely to the world, if not your worst trait, yet some trait whereby the worst may be inferred!” There was no sign of remorse or an apology. Dimmesdale’s only regret was that he had not shown the entire world his sin, embraced it, and proclaimed it from the rooftops. What utter garbage. O. Henry’s Gift of the Magi stands in stark contrast with Nathaniel Hawthorne’s Scarlet Letter. In the book, a newly wed couple is struggling financially, and Christmas is approaching. The wife respects her husband, and he loves her dearly. With only a little more than a dollar saved, she decides to cut her hair and sell it so she can buy her husband a golden chain for his watch, which is his most prized possession. But he sold his watch in order to buy her combs for her hair, which was her most prized possession. The two just laugh about the situation and decide to save the gifts for another time, after her hair grows out and he buys another watch. Until then, they look forward to that brighter day. Consider the beauty of the story. In The Scarlet Letter, the protagonists were consumed by selfless passion; in Gift of the Magi, they were consumed by selfless love. O. Henry’s moral is beautiful, and he tells the story in an entertaining way. For that reason, his books are incomprehensibly better than Nathaniel Hawthorne’s.
O. Henry’s greatness does not stop there, however. He is better than Jack London and Amrbose Bierce, too. In London’s short story, To Build a Fire, he spends too long elaborating on nature and scenery to an extent that does not advance the plot. Since the book is about the unforgiving harshness of the Yukon, describing the scenery is not uncalled for, but he does it too much. If one were to remove his descriptions about the mountains and snow, the book would not be a memorable classic, and it would probably be a third in size. If the mountains are more important than the characters, what is the point of the book? It is barely a story anymore. The Devil’s Dictionary by Ambrose Bierce is very amusing to read, but it is also not really a story. It is just a dictionary with satirical and cynical definitions. It makes for an amusing read, assuming the definitions are taken literally, but only in moderation. Aphorisms are fun to read one at a time, but I would never sit down and just read a book of aphorisms and certainly not a dictionary. Some would; I wouldn’t. Given the fact that O. Henry’s short stories are actually stories unlike Bierce’s work, while also not becoming long and dull like Jack London’s, I argue that he is the greatest American author of the 19th century.
Asher Sisneros 