Sherwood Anderson came to literature the long way: born in small-town Ohio in 1876, he was a paint-company manager and advertising man until his late thirties, when he famously walked out of his office mid-sentence and chose writing. Winesburg, Ohio (1919) — a cycle of linked stories about the night-time confessions of a small town — arrived like plain speech in a parlor of rhetoric, and the younger generation heard it instantly.
He mattered to Paris without ever living there. In Chicago in 1921 he befriended an unknown Ernest Hemingway and did him the greatest favour of his life: letters of introduction to Gertrude Stein and Sylvia Beach, which opened the doors of literary Paris before Hemingway had published a book. Anderson's own visits — staying in a little Left Bank hotel in the shadow of the Odéon, walking daily through the Luxembourg Gardens — were recorded warmly by Sisley Huddleston, who found him arguing that European elegance concealed a poverty crueller than anything in his native villages.
The pupils outgrew the teacher loudly — Hemingway parodied him in The Torrents of Spring (1926), and Faulkner, whose first novel Anderson had walked to a publisher, mocked him too — but both said versions of the same thing later: he was the father of their generation of American writers. He kept writing and traveling until his death in 1941, en route to South America.