Edwin Baird's 1937 story opens with a confident, almost declamatory voice: "Anything that man can dream, man can do." This credo belongs to Anton Slezak, a chemist who has already turned waste into wealth—cornstalks into cloth, coal soot into lacquer. The narrator catalogs his riches, his lovely wife, his adoring nephew, his loyal assistants. Yet the very abundance of his blessings, enumerated in a series of short, declarative sentences, creates an uneasy sense of over-justification. The story's structure mirrors Anton's own method: a methodical buildup of a dream, then a sudden, violent unraveling.

The Rhetoric of Certainty

Baird establishes Anton's worldview through repetitive, almost incantatory phrasing. The opening paragraph repeats "He had dreamed" and "man had dreamed" in parallel constructions, building a rhythm that mimics scientific certainty. The narrator insists Anton is "no poor dreamer"—his dreams have brought riches, a magnificent home, a devoted wife. Yet the very insistence on his happiness, the repeated assurance that "anybody could plainly see" his wife loved him, plants doubt. The prose's surface confidence is undercut by its own excess. When Anton begins his final experiment, the narrator notes it "could have no practical value whatever," a quiet admission that this dream differs from his profitable ones. The language shifts from expansive lists to tight, secretive clauses: "He worked in secrecy, in his private laboratory."

The Laboratory as Stage

The story's setting is almost entirely the laboratory, a space of controlled transformation. Anton's earlier miracles—converting waste to value—occur offstage; the narrative focuses on his final, impractical experiment. The laboratory becomes a theater for a single, irreversible act. Baird describes Anton's process in generic terms: "experimenting, testing, trying first this, then that." The vagueness contrasts with the precise, almost clinical description of the climax. When his wife Zora enters, she is described in a triad of adjectives: "exquisite," "vibrant," "athrob." This heightened, almost pulp-magazine diction sets her apart from the laboratory's sterile rationality. The door, the telephone, the revolver—each object becomes a prop in a tightly staged scene. The story's word count (under 6,000 words) forces a compressed arc from dream to catastrophe.

The Violence of Realization

The final pages accelerate into stark, physical detail. After the shooting, Anton "knelt beside them and watched them die." The narrator notes they "were an unconscionably long time about it," a chillingly detached observation. The blood flows together, staining the rug with "a grotesque pattern." Baird's prose, previously abstract and declarative, becomes concrete: the telephone rings, a knock comes, the door bursts open. Anton uses his last bullet "neatly through his heart." The adverb "neatly" echoes the precision of his earlier laboratory work, now turned to self-destruction. The story ends not with a moral or a reflection, but with a series of mechanical actions—shots, screams, a collapsing body. The dream, once realized, leaves only a tableau of corpses and a ringing telephone.

The Unreliable Inventory

Baird's narrator presents Anton's life as a list of possessions: wealth, home, wife, nephew, friends, assistants. The catalog is so exhaustive it becomes suspect. The wife is described as "truly beautiful" and "devotedly" loving—but the adverbs do the work of persuasion, not evidence. When the climax reveals her with another man, the earlier assurances are retroactively undermined. The story does not explain her motives or the nephew's role; it simply presents the betrayal as a fact. This narrative strategy—overstating happiness before destroying it—creates a sense of ironic inevitability. The reader, like Anton, is left with the aftermath: a dream that succeeded, but whose success was meaningless. The story's brevity forces the reader to fill in the gaps, making the violence feel both sudden and fated.

Readers should attend to the story's tonal shifts: the opening's assured, almost boastful voice gives way to a terse, brutal conclusion. Baird uses repetition and catalog to create a false sense of stability, then shatters it with concrete, physical detail. The experiment itself remains undescribed—what matters is the moment of its success and its immediate, violent consequence. This is a story less about science than about the gap between belief and outcome, told through a prose that mirrors its protagonist's rigid certainty.