The mild, blue-eyed young Ohio boy was a complete egotist, as all children are egotists.  He did not want friends for the quite simple reason that no child wants friends.  He wanted most of all the people of his own mind, people with whom he could really talk, people he could harangue and scold by the hour, servants, you see, to his fancy.  Among these people he was always self-confident and bold.  They might talk, to be sure, and even have opinions of their own, but always he talked last and best.  He was like a writer busy among the figures of his brain, a kind of tiny blue-eyed king he was, in a six-dollar room facing Washington Square in the city of New York.

Then Enoch Robinson got married.  He began to get lonely and to want to touch actual flesh-and-bone people with his hands.  Days passed when his room seemed empty.  Lust visited his body and desire grew in his mind.  At night strange fevers, burning within, kept him awake.  He married a girl who sat in a chair next to his own in the art school and went to live in an apartment house in Brooklyn.  Two children were born to the woman he married, and Enoch got a job in a place where illustrations are made for advertisements.

That began another phase of Enoch’s life.  He began to play at a new game.  For a while he was very proud of himself in the role of producing citizen of the world.  He dismissed the essence of things and played with realities.  In the fall he voted at an election and he had a newspaper thrown on his porch each morning.  When in the evening he came home from work he got off a streetcar and walked sedately along behind some business man, striving to look very substantial and important.  As a payer of taxes he thought he should post himself on how things are run.  “I’m getting to be of some moment, a real part of things, of the state and the city and all that,” he told himself with an amusing miniature air of dignity.  Once, coming home from Philadelphia, he had a discussion with a man met on a train.  Enoch talked about the advisability of the government’s owning and operating the railroads and the man gave him a cigar.  It was Enoch’s notion that such a move on the part of the government would be a good thing, and he grew quite excited as he talked.  Later he remembered his own words with pleasure.  “I gave him something to think about, that fellow,” he muttered to himself as he climbed the stairs to his Brooklyn apartment.

To be sure, Enoch’s marriage did not turn out.  He himself brought it to an end.  He began to feel choked and walled in by the life in the apartment, and to feel toward his wife and even toward his children as he had felt concerning the friends who once came to visit him.  He began to tell little lies about business engagements that would give him freedom to walk alone in the street at night and, the chance offering, he secretly re-rented the room facing Washington Square.  Then Mrs. Al Robinson died on the farm near Winesburg, and he got eight thousand dollars