Inventor Rational: Like his frank and honest novels.

---

Product Description

"Mark Twain's autobiography is a classic of American letters, to be ranked with the autobiographies of Benjamin Franklin and Henry Adams.... It has the marks of greatness in it--style, scope, imagination, laughter, tragedy."--From the Introduction by Charles Neider

Mark Twain was a figure larger than fife: massive in talent, eruptive in temperament, unpredictable in his actions. He crafted stories of heroism, adventure, tragedy, and comedy that reflected the changing America of the time, and he tells his own story--which includes sixteen pages of photos--with the same flair he brought to his fiction. Writing this autobiography on his deathbed, Twain vowed to he "free and frank and unembarrassed" in the recounting of his life and his experiences.

Twain was more than a match for the expanding America of riverboats, gold rushes, and the vast westward movement, which provided the material for his novels and which served to inspire this beloved and uniquely American autobiography.

---

Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #104895 in Books
• Published on: 2000-02-01
• Released on: 2000-01-26
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Binding: Paperback
• 560 pages

Features

• ISBN13: 9780060955427
• Condition: NEW
• Notes: Brand New from Publisher. No Remainder Mark.
• Click here to view our Condition Guide and Shipping Prices

Review
"A book filled with richnesses of humor and tragedy of disappointment and triumph, of sweetness and bitterness..." -- -- New York Herald Tribune Book Review

"A book filled with richnesses of humor and tragedy of disappointment and triumph, of sweetness and bitterness, and all in that unsurpassed American prose." -- New York Herald Tribune Book Review

"Magnificently alive." -- -Library Journal

About the Author
Mark Twain, who was born Samuel Clemens in Missouri in 1835, wrote some of the most enduring works of American fiction, including The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. He died in 1910.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

I was born the 30th of November, 1835, in the almost invisible village of Florida, Monroe County, Missouri. My parents removed to Missouri in the early 'thirties; I do not remember just when, for I was not born then and cared nothing for such things. It was a long journey in those days and must have been a rough and tiresome one. The village contained a hundred people and I increased the population by I per cent. It is more than many of the best men in history could have done for a town. It may not be modest in me to refer to this but it is true. There is no record of a person doing as much-not even Shakespeare. But I did it for Florida and it shows that I could have done it for any place-even London, I suppose.

Recently some one in Missouri has sent me a picture of the house I was born in. Heretofore I have always stated that it was a palace but I shall be more guarded now.

The village had two streets, each a couple of hundred yards long; the rest of the avenues mere lanes, with railfences and comfields on either side. Both the streets and the lanes were paved with the same material-tough black mud in wet times, deep dust in dry.

Most of the houses were of logs--all of them, indeed, except three or four; these latter were frame ones. There were none of brick and none of stone. There was a log church, with a puncheon floor and slab benches. A puncheon floor is made of logs whose upper surfaces have been chipped flat with the adz. The cracks between the logs were not filled; there was no carpet; consequently, if you dropped anything smaller than a peach it was likely to go through. The church was perched upon short sections of logs, which elevated it two or three feet from the ground. Hogs slept under there, and whenever the dogs got after them during services the minister had to wait till the disturbance was over. In winter there was always a refreshing breeze up through the puncheon floor; in summer there were fleas enough for all.

A slab bench is made of the outside cut of a saw-log, with the bark side down: it is supported on four sticks driven into auger holes at the ends; it has no back and no cushions. The church was twilighted with yellow tallow candles in tin sconces hung against the walls. Week days, the church was a schoolhouse.

There were two stores in the village. My uncle, John A. Quarles, was proprietor of one of them. It was a very small establishment, with a few rolls of "bit" calicoes on half a dozen shelves; a few barrels of salt mackerel, coffee and New Orleans sugar behind the counter; stacks of brooms, shovels, axes, hoes, rakes and such things here and there; a lot of cheap hats, bonnets and tinware strung on strings and suspended from the walls; and at the other end of the room was another counter with bags of shot on it, a cheese or two and a keg of powder; in front of it a row of nail kegs and a few pigs of lead, and behind it a barrel or two of New Orleans molasses and native corn whisky on tap. If a boy bought five or ten cents' worth of anything he was entitled to half a handful of sugar from the barrel; if a woman bought a few yards of calico she was entitled to a spool of thread in addition to the usual gratis "trimmin's"; if a man bought a trifle he was at liberty to draw and swallow as big a drink of whisky as he wanted.

Everything was cheap: apples, peaches, sweet potatoes, Irish potatoes and corn, ten cents a bushel; chickens, ten cents apiece; butter, six cents a pound; eggs, three cents a dozen; coffee and sugar, five cents a pound; whisky, ten cents a gallon. I do not know how prices are out there in interior Missouri now but I know what they are here in Hartford, Connecticut.' To wit: apples, three dollars a bushel; peaches, five dollars; Irish potatoes (choice Bermudas), five dollars; chickens, a dollar to a dollar and a half apiece, according to weight; butter, forty-five to sixty cents a pound; eggs, fifty to sixty cents a dozen; coffee, forty-five cents a pound; native whisky, four or five dollars a gallon, I believe, but I can only be certain concerning the sort which 1 use myself, which is Scotch and costs ten dollars a gallon when you take two gallons--more when you take less.

Thirty to forty years ago, out yonder in Missouri, the ordinary cigar cost thirty cents a hundred, but most people did not try to afford them, since smoking a pipe cost nothing in that tobaccogrowing country. Connecticut is also given up to tobacco raising, to-day, yet we pay ten dollars a hundred for Connecticut cigars and fifteen to twenty-five dollars a hundred for the imported article.

At first my father owned slaves but by and by he sold them and hired others by the year from the farmers. For a girl of fifteen he paid twelve dollars a year and gave her two tinsey-woolsey frocks and a pair of "stogy" shoes-cost, a modification of nothing; for a negro woman of twenty-five, as general house servant, he paid twenty-five dollars a year and gave her shoes and the aforementioned linsey-woolsey frocks; for a strong negro woman of forty, as cook, washer, etc., he paid forty dollars a year and the customary two suits of clothes; and for an able-bodied man he paid from seventy-five to a hundred dollars a year and gave him two suits of jeans and two pairs of "stogy" shoes--an outfit that cost about three dollars.

---

Customer Reviews

A unique autobiography from an American legend
The Autobiography of Mark Twain is somewhat biographical but mostly philisophical, with Twain using assorted tales from his past to ruminate on more profound aspects of life. This book, dictated by Twain when he was near the end of his life, covers a wide range of emotions.

Twain explains at the start of the book that he approached his auto-biography as though he were composing it posthumously in order that he might loose himself of normal inhibitions which would otherwise force him to hold back on his opinions of certain people and beliefs. The result of this style is a very witty and frank retelling and analysis of many private and not-so-private moments from Twain's amazing life.

This book obviously took Twain on an emotional journey of many highs and lows. These range from the hilarious scene in which he tries to reassure his wife that they are safe, even as a burglar rummages around in the lower portion of their house one night, to the extremely sad, but boldly colorful accounts of the deaths of several people very close to Twain.

In the end, though I enjoyed the book, I have to say I felt sad for Mark Twain. While I love his writing and think he is unfairly persecuted and misunderstood in today's politically correct world, Twain was not a very happy man at the end of his life, despite being at the pinnacle of his artistic field. His candor about his lack of faith in man or God is very honest but ultimately disappointing as it offered him, admittedly, no personal hope in anything greater than his difficult end to a very full life. I definitely recommend this book though for a look at an American icon that only could have been relayed by Twain himself.

My favorite version
The problem with putting together Twain's ramblings about himself is that in the original, they are scattered all over his life in no particular organization. The editors of this version have put them in roughly chronological order and taken out some of the more repetitious pieces--and it really works well when you sit down with this remarkable book and make your way through the life tale of the greatest of all tall tale men.

What also comes through clearly is the immense sadness and loneliness he felt at the end of his life. He is a man looking back on a lifetime of irreplaceable moments, some tragic, some unjust, many downright hilarious--and some unspeakably poignant, as when Twain mentions his pride to discover that his little daughter Susy, who died before him, had started writing his biography.

If you want to know more about the man who saw a river so wide it only had one bank, this is the place. More than almost any biography I can remember, this one made me smile, made me laugh loudly, and just as often filled my eyes with tears.

"I love to think of the great and godlike Clemens." -- Rudyard Kipling

Wonderful
This is technically perhaps not a great autobiography, in that it is rather a scrap book of anecdotes from Twain's life, with a casual tone that serious-minded readers might find less than fulfilling; but the anecdotes that work are brilliant, and I have read the brilliant ones countless times. I have read the parts about Twain's mother over and over, because she is the type person I aspire to be!! I'll give one anecdote about her to explain: There was a fierce, strongly built Corsican in Hannibal chasing his daughter through the streets with a thick rope, threatening to beat her with it. All the strongest men did not interfere as this man chased his daughter. The daughter finally came to Mrs. Clemens' door, and she let the girl in the door. But rather than shut the door, Mrs. Clemens--a frail woman--stood in the door way, blocking the way of the Corsican. The Corsican yelled at her, threatening her with the rope to get out of the way so he could get to his daughter. But Mrs. Clemens stood firm, and then berated the Corsican for chasing his daughter, and shamed his manhood, so that he finally swore with a blasphemous oath that she was the bravest woman he had ever met. He gave the rope to her, left his daughter alone, and he and Mrs. Clemens were friends after that. For, as Twain puts it, "he had found in her a long-wanted need. Someone who was not afraid of him."

I'd truly love typing my favorite bits of this book for you to read here. But Twain certainly tells them better, so I recommend you buy the book instead. You won't regret it. It will make you feel good about being American. And not in any patriotic sense, but in a down-to-earth sense.