In "Resurrection of a Life," the narrator embarks on a vivid journey through the tapestry of his youth as a ten-year-old paperboy in the bustling year of 1917. With nimble feet anchored on crowded sidewalks, he vociferously heralded the day's headlines to a sea of hurried strangers. This early vocation placed him squarely amidst the thunderous echoes of World War I, interwoven with the threads of his impoverished upbringing. The weight of these realities chiseled a cynical outlook in the young boy, who yearned for some semblance of stability and clarity in tumultuous times.

The narrative begins with the narrator musing on the immortality of past events, preserved vividly in the vault of his memory. He recounts his curious ventures into dimly lit saloons, notorious whorehouses, and bustling gambling dens, observing the kaleidoscope of human behavior. Watching the affluent savoring ice cream beneath the gentle hum of electric fans, he silently chastised their oblivion to the grave struggles of the less fortunate. His wanderings often led him to the Crystal Bar, a sanctuary for men who drank, played cards, and left spatters on the floor, where he harbored a particular distaste for a corpulent man whose summer ritual was napping there. The cinema, with its illusory tales, offered him a mirror reflecting the stark truths of his own existence.

With a self-professed worldly wisdom, the boy found school superfluous and the teachings banal. He saw himself standing apart from, and above, the other children, uninterested in their mundane lessons.

Every morning, he trotted to The San Joaquin Baking Company to purchase what was known as "chicken bread," loaves that had tumbled to the floor during packaging, typically bought for poultry. But for this boy, it was sustenance for his family. The baker, aware of the boy's true purpose, preserved his dignity by pretending he owned chickens, always selecting the finest loaves for him.

The narrator paints a vivid picture of the dilapidated home where his family dwelled. Its roof leaked persistently, the floors sagged underfoot, and it teemed with insects. Yet, they were undeterred, finding solace in their togetherness within those humble walls.

One memory stands starkly in his mind: shouting headlines of "ten thousand Huns" slain—an epithet then used for German soldiers. Despite the boost in paper sales, he recoiled at the jubilance surrounding the mass casualties. Unlike historians who distill war into events and figures, he perceived it through the intimate lens of individual lives lost, each death a universe extinguished.

Church was a solemn ritual for him and his family, where he donned his finest and reveled in the hymns. Yet, the omnipresence of hatred, squalor, and death sowed seeds of doubt about God in his young mind. His world was riddled with voids where divinity seemed absent, yet he could not sever his ties to the concept entirely.

As the story draws to a close, the narrator returns to the solitude of his present, alone in a room enveloped by night. He shares his revelation that all one can do is continue to breathe and move forward through the tapestry of joys and sorrows. He concludes with a proclamation of gratitude for life itself, embracing both its ugliness and glory, convinced that death is but an illusion, forever elusive.