Mark Twain by Ron Chernow A Study of a Profoundly American Life
What's it about?
Mark Twain (2025) is a study of an American original: Sam Clemens, the writer and humorist who discovered his nation’s literary voice under the immortal pen name Mark Twain. Drawing on archives containing thousands of letters, notebooks, and manuscripts, this comprehensive biography lifts the curtain on the man behind the carefully constructed public persona. The result is a portrait of many shades, from the brilliant to the contradictory and tragic.
Mark Twain was no fan of the biographer’s art. The authors of such studies, he said, grasped little “but the clothes and buttons of a man.” The inner lives of their subjects, their true selves, remained inexpressible – and thus inaccessible.
Despite his skepticism, Twain diligently prepared the ground for future chroniclers. Their interpretive toil is eased by what he left behind over more than 50 years of writing: hundreds of personal notebooks, thousands of essays and articles about his life and opinions, and half a million words of autobiography. Twain was a man of contradictions. The famous lines of Walt Whitman, his near contemporary, could have easily been his own: “Do I contradict myself? / Very well then I contradict myself / (I am large, I contain multitudes.)”
Ron Chernow, a biographer who specializes in scrupulous studies of famous Americans, spent years combing the vast Twain archive and an equally giant number of secondary sources. If there’s a document with Mark Twain’s name on or in it, Chernow has read it. Only Twain could tell us how close his biographer has come to his true self; that this monumental 1,174-page study grasps more than the man’s clothes and buttons is beyond dispute.
In this lesson, you’ll hear a shorter version of Twain’s memorable life. From a footloose Missouri childhood to formative experiences aboard Mississippi riverboats, fame, fortune, failures, and his ultimate legacy, we’ll break this profoundly American life down into six bite-sized chapters.
Anytime you mention a river in America, Bob Dylan writes, you’re thinking of the Mississippi. It’s inevitable: the waterway surges through the nation’s art. No one did more to fix its place in the popular imagination than the author of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. When Mark Twain placed a runaway slave and his young friend on a raft and sent them eddying westward on its waters, the Mississippi became a symbol of freedom, self-definition, adventure – and America.
The river courses through Mark Twain’s life. Born as Samuel Clemens in 1835, he was raised on its banks in Hannibal, Missouri. This “white town drowsing” clung to old Southern customs as obstinately as it clung to the exploitative system underpinning them: slavery. Sam saw the gothic horrors of what was euphemistically known as “the peculiar institution” up close. He never forgot the baying dogs of slave patrols scouring the forests or the bloated body of the drowned runaway they’d been chasing.
Sam was the kind of boy you meet in Mark Twain novels. Mischievous, barefooted, and – in the words of a neighbor – “always showing off, turning handsprings, and cutting capers.” He detested school and its cult of conformity and he disliked his father: a “sort of armed neutrality” prevailed between him and the emotionally distant local judge whose presence sent a chill through the Clemens house. He loved his mother – a witty woman whose poker-faced style of delivering jokes became his own. He drew his friends from the town’s misfits. He preferred the society of outsiders, he said, because he’d been “a person of low-down tastes from the start.”
After school, he apprenticed as a printer’s devil – a mucky job once held by Ben Franklin that mostly involved mixing tubs of ink. He took an interest in the newspapers he helped typeset and dreamt of writing for them one day. Fate obliged, though his journey into print was as serpentine as the river which gave him his identity. In 1857, a boat pilot offered to teach Sam the “wonderful science” of river navigation; he signed on. It was during this second apprenticeship that the author we know was born. Sam developed a magpie’s eye for glittering details aboard Mississippi boats. Memorable scenes, characters, phrases, yarns, and tall tales – he collected them all in his notebooks. The name by which we know that author can also be traced back to his years on the water: “mark twain,” slang for a depth of two fathoms or 12 feet, was one of those distinctive phrases he’d recorded in his notes on river life.
All those details, the raw material of Mark Twain’s art, might have remained locked up in unread notebooks if it hadn’t been for the Civil War. When it came in early 1861, it promptly sank the steamboat trade and forced Sam Clemens to come up with a new plan.
In the summer, the former riverboat pilot slung an old squirrel rifle over his shoulder, mounted a donkey, and rode off to enlist in the Missouri State Guard. He lasted two weeks – enough time, he later said, to learn more about retreating than the man who’d invented it.
Instead of fighting, he struck out west. This was the age of “silver fever” – a frenzy of hope and greed that gripped the frontier after the discovery of the Comstock Lode, a vast deposit of silver ore in western Nevada. His own prospecting came to little, but the rough-and-ready life he found in the mountains provided new material for his notebooks. He used it in the dispatches he sent off to newspapers. His sketches are irreverent and impressionistic, anarchical and exaggerated, and they’re steeped in the idiomatic and imperfect English spoken by real Americans. They contain the rough outlines of Twain’s mature style.
The fine-tuning was done on the road. In the fall of 1866, he embarked on a whistle-stop tour of the American West, spending nights in jerry-rigged frontier towns where he gave what were essentially stand-up sets about his travels. Every word was carefully considered and calibrated, but it felt off-the-cuff, raw, and real. Audiences loved it. Audiences loved him.
It was Mark Twain’s first taste of success.
The breakthrough, though, came when a California newspaper commissioned him to write about a pleasure cruise through Europe and the Holy Land. Twain’s humorous account of his journey, which appeared in book form in 1869 as The Innocents Abroad, is regarded as some of the finest travel writing ever published. Twain’s style was fully formed by now: the satirical skewering of pomp and provincialism, the wry wit, and his demotic American voice are unmistakable. It was a critical and commercial success; no book of his would ever sell more copies. More importantly, it made Mark Twain a household name, allowing him to parlay his literary reputation into financial reward on the international lecture circuit.
On the voyage to the Holy Land, a fellow traveler showed Twain a picture of his sister, Olivia Langdon. It was love at first sight. He met her in person when he got back to New York. Twain took Livy, as he called her, on a date to see Charles Dickens reading from one of his novels. That was in the fall of 1867. They were married in early 1870.
This was a gilded age and Langdon, the daughter of a coal baron, belonged to its oligarchical 1 percent. Twain’s “low-down tastes,” it turned out, were more than compatible with a life of luxury. The couple moved into a starter home provided by Langdon’s father: a mansion that came with its own staff. For more than a decade, the couple traveled the world in style, renting entire hotel floors in fashionable European cities. Twain continued giving his lectures. From London to Vienna to Trieste, readers lined up to see the famous American. Sigmund Freud and Gustav Mahler were just two of the luminaries of the day among their number.
The marriage catapulted Twain into the financial elite, but money hadn’t motivated the union: the couple’s relationship was rooted in mutual adoration. Langdon civilized Twain, a man who still bore traces of the Missouri river boy and Nevada frontiersman he’d once been. She was his first reader; her influence on the page was as in life: a restraint on his worst impulses.
From 1874 to 1891, the couple lived in a handsome villa in New England with their three daughters, Olivia, Clara, and Jean. His wife’s wealth ensured the family’s prosperity, but Twain enjoyed a series of commercial triumphs. His greatest coup was the acquisition of the memoirs of Ulysses S. Grant, the general who’d led the Union to victory in the Civil War. Published in 1885 by Twain’s own company, the memoirs sold 300,000 copies, earning the general’s widow the equivalent of $15 million in royalties. Twain’s company pocketed the remaining 30 percent of the profits – around $6.4 million in today’s money.
These halcyon days were Mark Twain’s most productive period as an artist, with one great novel following hard on the heels of the other. First came The Adventures of Tom Sawyer in 1876, then Life on the Mississippi in 1883. Written in fits and starts over the previous decade, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn was published in 1884. It was Twain’s crowning achievement and his claim to greatness. As Ernest Hemingway put it many years later, “all modern American literature comes from one book by Mark Twain called Huckleberry Finn.” As he saw it, there was nothing before that novel and there hadn’t been anything as good since.
Success went to Twain’s head: he began to think everything he touched turned to gold.
When he considered greatness, he wasn’t thinking about his place in the canon – he was dreaming of cold hard cash. Most progressive intellectuals of the day loathed America’s robber barons; Twain loved them. They reminded him of the frontiersmen he’d known as a young man: they were go-getters, risk-takers, empire-builders. Mark Twain, however, was a truly terrible entrepreneur – so bad, in fact, that it became a running joke. The Washington Post advised its readers to keep a close eye on his investments and move their money literally anywhere else.
The Post had a point. Twain’s blunders included a litany of devices no one wanted like bed clamps to stop children kicking off their blankets at night. That didn’t take, so Twain started work on a board game to help players improve their powers of recall. Those who tried it said it was like reading railway schedules. That failed too, but there was always the next boondoggle – in this case, a drink called Plasmon. Twain said it was 16 times more nutritious than “the best beef.” On closer inspection, it turned out to be nothing but reconstituted milk powder.
The low point of Twain’s undistinguished career as an entrepreneur was the Paige Compositor, a typesetting machine he thought destined to become the new industry standard. According to Twain, J. W. Paige, its maker, was the “Shakespeare of mechanical invention.” Twain ignored the fact that this “most marvelous invention” failed to place periods at the end of sentences and continued throwing good money after bad. The Paige Compositor didn’t even flop – it was dead on arrival. By 1891, Twain had squandered his wife’s fortune and bankrupted the family.
Twain fell back on his literary fame. After selling the New England mansion, he embarked on a world speaking tour. He turned his notes into a travel book: Following the Equator, published in 1897. It was well received but fell short of his first stab at the genre 30 years earlier.
That, though, was a theme: the more time and energy Twain invested in his hare-brained schemes, the less – and less well – he wrote. As the critic Graeme Wood writes, we only have to imagine an author in the 1990s like Philip Roth cutting back on writing novels to hawk SlimFast and alternatives to Microsoft Word to see the absurdity of Twain’s boondoggling.
Twain was just shy of 50 when he completed The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. It ends with its hero eyeing an open horizon and a future full of possibility. He was almost 60 when he drafted the sequel. The protagonists of the first book, now grown old, return from their adventures to “talk the old times.” But it’s no good: “All that was beautiful,” they conclude, lies “under mold.” They die realizing that their lives have been wasted.
That unhappy story was never told in full, but the first novel Twain completed after the Paige Compositor affair’s sorry end was just as gloomy. Published in 1894, Tom Sawyer Abroad asks readers if they think its hero was satisfied after all his adventuring. No, says the narrator, he wasn’t – “it just poisoned him for more.” There’s a stark change in tone between Twain’s early and late work. The former was written by America’s most joyful writer; the latter by a man who could only put pen to paper when he had death and disappointment on his mind.
The gloom didn’t lift – it deepened. The last decades of Twain’s life were harrowing. In 1896, his eldest daughter, Susy, died from bacterial meningitis at the age of 24. A year later, Clara, his middle daughter, suffered a psychological breakdown. His wife, Livy, struggled with serious health issues for close to a decade before dying of heart failure in 1904. Jean, their youngest daughter, was diagnosed with epilepsy. After years of failing to find an effective treatment, she was found dead in a bathtub in 1909.
But the Mark Twain show went on. It had to. The pen name had become a brand – something larger than the grief-stricken man beneath the public persona. Twain continued writing, commenting, and lecturing – but it wasn’t the same. His views grew more strident and the jokes became more abrasive. He fell out of love with America; hypocrisy, my-country-right-or-wrong jingoism, and murderous imperialism had replaced its old and worthy ideals. Its freedom was being eroded as a result. The individual’s right to oppose flag and country, he wrote, had always been America’s “most valuable asset” and it’d been “thrown away.”
The Almighty also came in for criticism. In an essay written in 1896, he states that God never “does a kindness.” It may seem as though he has, but it’s a trap: if he gives you riches, “it is to quadruple the bitterness of the poverty which he has planned for you.” It’s the lament of a man whose final decades were filled with suffering to rival the Book of Job.
Halley’s Comet was as close to our planet as it gets when Sam Clemens was born on November 30, 1835. It was in the sky again when Mark Twain died 74 years later on April 21, 1910. The Almighty, Twain said shortly before his death, had planned for these “two unaccountable freaks” to come in and go out together.
American literature, cultural critic Lauren Michele Jackson writes, was old enough “to regard itself as a tradition” by 1910. Twain, who had never been greatly interested in canons or pantheons, was its founding father. No one before him had tried to capture the sound of America’s living speech. His success in doing so liberated the nation’s writers from the constraints of formal British English. As Hemingway said, American writers after Twain have largely trodden paths first cleared by the author of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.
Twain said he was lazy, but he left behind a body of work containing 30 books, thousands of essays and articles, and over 12,000 letters. That work gradually faded into bitterness, but its joyful best remains dear to the hearts of millions of readers around the world.
In this lesson to Mark Twain by Ron Chernow, you’ve learned Mark Twain transformed his Mississippi boyhood and experiences of the western frontier into a voice that redefined American literature. He cast off the formalities of British English and captured the unruly rhythms of real speech. Fame, fortune, and failure followed in quick succession. His later years were disfigured by grief and bitterness, but the best of his work remains. Writers still learn from him; readers still return to him.
Mark Twain (2025) is a study of an American original: Sam Clemens, the writer and humorist who discovered his nation’s literary voice under the immortal pen name Mark Twain. Drawing on archives containing thousands of letters, notebooks, and manuscripts, this comprehensive biography lifts the curtain on the man behind the carefully constructed public persona. The result is a portrait of many shades, from the brilliant to the contradictory and tragic.
Mark Twain was no fan of the biographer’s art. The authors of such studies, he said, grasped little “but the clothes and buttons of a man.” The inner lives of their subjects, their true selves, remained inexpressible – and thus inaccessible.
Despite his skepticism, Twain diligently prepared the ground for future chroniclers. Their interpretive toil is eased by what he left behind over more than 50 years of writing: hundreds of personal notebooks, thousands of essays and articles about his life and opinions, and half a million words of autobiography. Twain was a man of contradictions. The famous lines of Walt Whitman, his near contemporary, could have easily been his own: “Do I contradict myself? / Very well then I contradict myself / (I am large, I contain multitudes.)”
Ron Chernow, a biographer who specializes in scrupulous studies of famous Americans, spent years combing the vast Twain archive and an equally giant number of secondary sources. If there’s a document with Mark Twain’s name on or in it, Chernow has read it. Only Twain could tell us how close his biographer has come to his true self; that this monumental 1,174-page study grasps more than the man’s clothes and buttons is beyond dispute.
In this lesson, you’ll hear a shorter version of Twain’s memorable life. From a footloose Missouri childhood to formative experiences aboard Mississippi riverboats, fame, fortune, failures, and his ultimate legacy, we’ll break this profoundly American life down into six bite-sized chapters.
Anytime you mention a river in America, Bob Dylan writes, you’re thinking of the Mississippi. It’s inevitable: the waterway surges through the nation’s art. No one did more to fix its place in the popular imagination than the author of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. When Mark Twain placed a runaway slave and his young friend on a raft and sent them eddying westward on its waters, the Mississippi became a symbol of freedom, self-definition, adventure – and America.
The river courses through Mark Twain’s life. Born as Samuel Clemens in 1835, he was raised on its banks in Hannibal, Missouri. This “white town drowsing” clung to old Southern customs as obstinately as it clung to the exploitative system underpinning them: slavery. Sam saw the gothic horrors of what was euphemistically known as “the peculiar institution” up close. He never forgot the baying dogs of slave patrols scouring the forests or the bloated body of the drowned runaway they’d been chasing.
Sam was the kind of boy you meet in Mark Twain novels. Mischievous, barefooted, and – in the words of a neighbor – “always showing off, turning handsprings, and cutting capers.” He detested school and its cult of conformity and he disliked his father: a “sort of armed neutrality” prevailed between him and the emotionally distant local judge whose presence sent a chill through the Clemens house. He loved his mother – a witty woman whose poker-faced style of delivering jokes became his own. He drew his friends from the town’s misfits. He preferred the society of outsiders, he said, because he’d been “a person of low-down tastes from the start.”
After school, he apprenticed as a printer’s devil – a mucky job once held by Ben Franklin that mostly involved mixing tubs of ink. He took an interest in the newspapers he helped typeset and dreamt of writing for them one day. Fate obliged, though his journey into print was as serpentine as the river which gave him his identity. In 1857, a boat pilot offered to teach Sam the “wonderful science” of river navigation; he signed on. It was during this second apprenticeship that the author we know was born. Sam developed a magpie’s eye for glittering details aboard Mississippi boats. Memorable scenes, characters, phrases, yarns, and tall tales – he collected them all in his notebooks. The name by which we know that author can also be traced back to his years on the water: “mark twain,” slang for a depth of two fathoms or 12 feet, was one of those distinctive phrases he’d recorded in his notes on river life.
All those details, the raw material of Mark Twain’s art, might have remained locked up in unread notebooks if it hadn’t been for the Civil War. When it came in early 1861, it promptly sank the steamboat trade and forced Sam Clemens to come up with a new plan.
In the summer, the former riverboat pilot slung an old squirrel rifle over his shoulder, mounted a donkey, and rode off to enlist in the Missouri State Guard. He lasted two weeks – enough time, he later said, to learn more about retreating than the man who’d invented it.
Instead of fighting, he struck out west. This was the age of “silver fever” – a frenzy of hope and greed that gripped the frontier after the discovery of the Comstock Lode, a vast deposit of silver ore in western Nevada. His own prospecting came to little, but the rough-and-ready life he found in the mountains provided new material for his notebooks. He used it in the dispatches he sent off to newspapers. His sketches are irreverent and impressionistic, anarchical and exaggerated, and they’re steeped in the idiomatic and imperfect English spoken by real Americans. They contain the rough outlines of Twain’s mature style.
The fine-tuning was done on the road. In the fall of 1866, he embarked on a whistle-stop tour of the American West, spending nights in jerry-rigged frontier towns where he gave what were essentially stand-up sets about his travels. Every word was carefully considered and calibrated, but it felt off-the-cuff, raw, and real. Audiences loved it. Audiences loved him.
It was Mark Twain’s first taste of success.
The breakthrough, though, came when a California newspaper commissioned him to write about a pleasure cruise through Europe and the Holy Land. Twain’s humorous account of his journey, which appeared in book form in 1869 as The Innocents Abroad, is regarded as some of the finest travel writing ever published. Twain’s style was fully formed by now: the satirical skewering of pomp and provincialism, the wry wit, and his demotic American voice are unmistakable. It was a critical and commercial success; no book of his would ever sell more copies. More importantly, it made Mark Twain a household name, allowing him to parlay his literary reputation into financial reward on the international lecture circuit.
On the voyage to the Holy Land, a fellow traveler showed Twain a picture of his sister, Olivia Langdon. It was love at first sight. He met her in person when he got back to New York. Twain took Livy, as he called her, on a date to see Charles Dickens reading from one of his novels. That was in the fall of 1867. They were married in early 1870.
This was a gilded age and Langdon, the daughter of a coal baron, belonged to its oligarchical 1 percent. Twain’s “low-down tastes,” it turned out, were more than compatible with a life of luxury. The couple moved into a starter home provided by Langdon’s father: a mansion that came with its own staff. For more than a decade, the couple traveled the world in style, renting entire hotel floors in fashionable European cities. Twain continued giving his lectures. From London to Vienna to Trieste, readers lined up to see the famous American. Sigmund Freud and Gustav Mahler were just two of the luminaries of the day among their number.
The marriage catapulted Twain into the financial elite, but money hadn’t motivated the union: the couple’s relationship was rooted in mutual adoration. Langdon civilized Twain, a man who still bore traces of the Missouri river boy and Nevada frontiersman he’d once been. She was his first reader; her influence on the page was as in life: a restraint on his worst impulses.
From 1874 to 1891, the couple lived in a handsome villa in New England with their three daughters, Olivia, Clara, and Jean. His wife’s wealth ensured the family’s prosperity, but Twain enjoyed a series of commercial triumphs. His greatest coup was the acquisition of the memoirs of Ulysses S. Grant, the general who’d led the Union to victory in the Civil War. Published in 1885 by Twain’s own company, the memoirs sold 300,000 copies, earning the general’s widow the equivalent of $15 million in royalties. Twain’s company pocketed the remaining 30 percent of the profits – around $6.4 million in today’s money.
These halcyon days were Mark Twain’s most productive period as an artist, with one great novel following hard on the heels of the other. First came The Adventures of Tom Sawyer in 1876, then Life on the Mississippi in 1883. Written in fits and starts over the previous decade, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn was published in 1884. It was Twain’s crowning achievement and his claim to greatness. As Ernest Hemingway put it many years later, “all modern American literature comes from one book by Mark Twain called Huckleberry Finn.” As he saw it, there was nothing before that novel and there hadn’t been anything as good since.
Success went to Twain’s head: he began to think everything he touched turned to gold.
When he considered greatness, he wasn’t thinking about his place in the canon – he was dreaming of cold hard cash. Most progressive intellectuals of the day loathed America’s robber barons; Twain loved them. They reminded him of the frontiersmen he’d known as a young man: they were go-getters, risk-takers, empire-builders. Mark Twain, however, was a truly terrible entrepreneur – so bad, in fact, that it became a running joke. The Washington Post advised its readers to keep a close eye on his investments and move their money literally anywhere else.
The Post had a point. Twain’s blunders included a litany of devices no one wanted like bed clamps to stop children kicking off their blankets at night. That didn’t take, so Twain started work on a board game to help players improve their powers of recall. Those who tried it said it was like reading railway schedules. That failed too, but there was always the next boondoggle – in this case, a drink called Plasmon. Twain said it was 16 times more nutritious than “the best beef.” On closer inspection, it turned out to be nothing but reconstituted milk powder.
The low point of Twain’s undistinguished career as an entrepreneur was the Paige Compositor, a typesetting machine he thought destined to become the new industry standard. According to Twain, J. W. Paige, its maker, was the “Shakespeare of mechanical invention.” Twain ignored the fact that this “most marvelous invention” failed to place periods at the end of sentences and continued throwing good money after bad. The Paige Compositor didn’t even flop – it was dead on arrival. By 1891, Twain had squandered his wife’s fortune and bankrupted the family.
Twain fell back on his literary fame. After selling the New England mansion, he embarked on a world speaking tour. He turned his notes into a travel book: Following the Equator, published in 1897. It was well received but fell short of his first stab at the genre 30 years earlier.
That, though, was a theme: the more time and energy Twain invested in his hare-brained schemes, the less – and less well – he wrote. As the critic Graeme Wood writes, we only have to imagine an author in the 1990s like Philip Roth cutting back on writing novels to hawk SlimFast and alternatives to Microsoft Word to see the absurdity of Twain’s boondoggling.
Twain was just shy of 50 when he completed The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. It ends with its hero eyeing an open horizon and a future full of possibility. He was almost 60 when he drafted the sequel. The protagonists of the first book, now grown old, return from their adventures to “talk the old times.” But it’s no good: “All that was beautiful,” they conclude, lies “under mold.” They die realizing that their lives have been wasted.
That unhappy story was never told in full, but the first novel Twain completed after the Paige Compositor affair’s sorry end was just as gloomy. Published in 1894, Tom Sawyer Abroad asks readers if they think its hero was satisfied after all his adventuring. No, says the narrator, he wasn’t – “it just poisoned him for more.” There’s a stark change in tone between Twain’s early and late work. The former was written by America’s most joyful writer; the latter by a man who could only put pen to paper when he had death and disappointment on his mind.
The gloom didn’t lift – it deepened. The last decades of Twain’s life were harrowing. In 1896, his eldest daughter, Susy, died from bacterial meningitis at the age of 24. A year later, Clara, his middle daughter, suffered a psychological breakdown. His wife, Livy, struggled with serious health issues for close to a decade before dying of heart failure in 1904. Jean, their youngest daughter, was diagnosed with epilepsy. After years of failing to find an effective treatment, she was found dead in a bathtub in 1909.
But the Mark Twain show went on. It had to. The pen name had become a brand – something larger than the grief-stricken man beneath the public persona. Twain continued writing, commenting, and lecturing – but it wasn’t the same. His views grew more strident and the jokes became more abrasive. He fell out of love with America; hypocrisy, my-country-right-or-wrong jingoism, and murderous imperialism had replaced its old and worthy ideals. Its freedom was being eroded as a result. The individual’s right to oppose flag and country, he wrote, had always been America’s “most valuable asset” and it’d been “thrown away.”
The Almighty also came in for criticism. In an essay written in 1896, he states that God never “does a kindness.” It may seem as though he has, but it’s a trap: if he gives you riches, “it is to quadruple the bitterness of the poverty which he has planned for you.” It’s the lament of a man whose final decades were filled with suffering to rival the Book of Job.
Halley’s Comet was as close to our planet as it gets when Sam Clemens was born on November 30, 1835. It was in the sky again when Mark Twain died 74 years later on April 21, 1910. The Almighty, Twain said shortly before his death, had planned for these “two unaccountable freaks” to come in and go out together.
American literature, cultural critic Lauren Michele Jackson writes, was old enough “to regard itself as a tradition” by 1910. Twain, who had never been greatly interested in canons or pantheons, was its founding father. No one before him had tried to capture the sound of America’s living speech. His success in doing so liberated the nation’s writers from the constraints of formal British English. As Hemingway said, American writers after Twain have largely trodden paths first cleared by the author of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.
Twain said he was lazy, but he left behind a body of work containing 30 books, thousands of essays and articles, and over 12,000 letters. That work gradually faded into bitterness, but its joyful best remains dear to the hearts of millions of readers around the world.
In this lesson to Mark Twain by Ron Chernow, you’ve learned Mark Twain transformed his Mississippi boyhood and experiences of the western frontier into a voice that redefined American literature. He cast off the formalities of British English and captured the unruly rhythms of real speech. Fame, fortune, and failure followed in quick succession. His later years were disfigured by grief and bitterness, but the best of his work remains. Writers still learn from him; readers still return to him.
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