The Thunderclap Series #6: Steinbeck

I came late to the Steinbeck party. I remember reading Grapes of Wrath in 8th grade and admiring it, but also feeling not quite at home in it. There was an entire chapter devoted to a turtle crossing the road.

A whole chapter.

That was too much even for my nerdy brain – at the time.

Fast forward 14 years to when I met the man who is now my husband. During that delightful early phase of getting to know each other, we shared a lot of our favorite books – not just “shared” them in the general sense, but the borrowed-and-read-with-deep-discussion-over-lengthy-emails type of sharing. #nerdromance #youknowitslovewhenhetrustsyouwithbooks

East of Eden was – and is – chief on his “Thunderclap” list. He had spoken of it often, so when he lent it to me, I dove in with a right good will – eager not only to experience the story itself, but also to learn what it might reveal about this man over whom I was already thoroughly twitterpated. I set aside a nice little pot in my soul’s book garden, ready to receive John Steinbeck.

It didn’t take long – maybe the first page or two – for the book to outgrow the space I had reserved for it.

It broke the pot and sent hungry, virile roots shooting to every corner of my soul. It grew and grew and bore more fruit than I could stomach, leaving me shaken and weeping and scoured raw.

This book is not a tame little house plant. It is a tree that plants itself inside you and changes the course of all future growth. It’s not something you read: it is a force that you encounter – or, rather, that encounters you.

I highly doubt anyone could leave unchanged. 

I say all this knowing that this book is not for everyone.

Steinbeck is not for everyone, and East of Eden is a doozy even by Steinbeckian standards – a sprawling epic spanning several generations. The author wanders often from the “main plot” to give a detailed account of the geography of the land, local/national history (with commentary), and the lives of certain individuals whose presence in said “main plot” is cursory at best. Steinbeck acknowledged in letters that many readers may not appreciate or enjoy these seeming tangents. 

But, to me, no word in this tome is wasted. It seems that each chapter carries out the next step in building a giant bonfire – a piece of kindling here, a dry branch there, several drops of oil scattered slowly over the whole until . . . the final words on the last page strike a match, and your whole soul goes up in flames. 

That was my experience with East of Eden, and I am forever grateful for it. I plan to continue reading this book over and over until I die, interspersed with other Steinbeck novels and short stories. None has yet impacted me with the same ferocity as East of Eden (though To a God Unknown came close), but all have left some mark.

For one thing, as I mentioned in a post about a year ago (after finishing In Dubious Battle, another Steinbeck novel), Steinbeck is the most compassionate writer I have read.

East of Eden contains a clear example of this compassion in the character of Cathy/Kate.

From the first time we meet her, Steinbeck describes her repeatedly as a “monster”. She is the most easily identifiable “antagonist” of the novel, committing such a variety of unspeakable atrocities that it would be easy to forget she is human at all.

Yet Steinbeck, while not shying away from her monstrousness, is careful to paint a complete portrait. One paragraph in particular burned its way into my memory: he was describing Kate’s face in great detail, outlining every line and curve – not for abstract description’s sake, but to show how this face told the story of Kate’s constant, chronic pain. 

For one moment, this was not a demon in human guise, but a woman – a woman who hid her deep, continual suffering from the world. I felt empathy with a heart that had not demonstrated itself capable of feeling anything beyond self-preservation.

One reason to reread East of Eden is to keep encountering Kate – keep reminding myself to look beyond people’s words or deeds and search for the story told in the pain-lines of their faces.