Frances

This is just the second Steinbeck book that I've read and he's already starting to rub off on me. He writes about life with a microscopic lens, singling out individuals and their circumstances, all the while panning through the rest of the worldly distractions with a hazy eye, permeating into the everyday lives of his characters and inking the once-invisible thread that connects people. It will be a while before the image of Cannery Row fades into the back rows of my mind. For now, I will ride on through life in this bubble of romanticism, basking in my “hour of pearl”.

So you start out with a bunch of despicable characters who couldn't possibly have any stories worth telling as their lives are seemingly empty except when they happen to have some wine. Steinbeck proves us wrong. How many times have you seen a homeless drunkard sitting by the road staring at nothing and felt sorry for the guy? Steinbeck teaches us that there is no need to be, because that man is staring at the world in its entirety, and that man has more time than you'll ever have to tell the stories of the world.

It is difficult to stop reading this book no matter how painful it is at times, but it ended well and I wouldn't have preferred any other ending. I would say this is one of Steinbeck's best.

The book feels like an hour-long drive where occasionally you get flashes of pretty scenery but most of the time it's just soil and dust. I wonder how this book was written. Did his index cards get shuffled? Did he have an impossible deadline to beat? I liked the premise set up for the main character well enough that I tagged along until the last page, but by then the whole thing still felt undercooked. Maybe the only reason I liked the character to begin with was that he seemed like a student of the Tao Te Ching, which I am trying to be.

But hey, it wasn't that bad. It's a quick read, time I could afford to waste. And it did try to redeem itself at some point.

This is what people are talking about when they use words like grace.That moment, that morning, came vividly back to him whenever he thought of it. But soon suspicion set in. He understood well enough that life by very definition is upset, movement, agitation.

—-


“Think we choose our lives?”“No. But I don't think they're thrust upon us, either. What it feels like to me is, they're forever seeping up under our feet.”