When he died, he was buried at Norwell Center cemetery in Massachusetts, about fifteen miles from where he was born. He came full circle after spending his life trying to escape his hometown.
In 1940, he wrote:
“Nothing seems as genuine and vital to me as the life of the family I have left. Living in New York I’ve seen people grow old and buildings torn down, I’ve seen women cry and funeral processions but when I try to recall the way people live and die I think of my mother and my father and the people who live on our street.”
In 1956, about his journal:
“I seem unable to read this journal for what it is, a means of refreshing my memory. I seem to look delightedly at myself in a glass. I think of it as something to be published and studied in libraries and this is not what I want at all.”
Off to class now.