The Dirty Little Secret Writers Will Never Tell You.

Readers read bestselling novels to have their hearts broken. That's the dirty little secret. There's more to it than that, of course. But that's the secret. (I'm a writer and I just told you the secret, so my headline is a lie. No matter. It served its purpose, to entice you to read this essay. I hope you aren't offended by this.)

In order to work their magic, writers entice readers to fall in love with their characters. They want to have their readers' hearts to go all aflutter as they imagine how wonderful this story will be, as they emotionally invest in the story, and become captivated by in, engage their imaginations to, in a sense, make it their own.

Soon though, the writer intervenes, turns the story and smashes readers' hopes to smithereens. A good writer breaks readers' hearts by the millions. In the wreckage, the writer reveals the truth. Some of the more incontrovertible truths writers employ: Everyone dies. Everyone lies. The flesh is weak. Everything falls apart. We try to live our lives as though they are fortresses when in fact each of us is nothing but a grain of sand washed up on a foreign shore. Each of us is a stranger in a strange land.

In John Steinbeck's Of Mice & Men, "angry John" who, when he was alive and writing, as one critic had it, was "the most pissed-off writer in America," pushed this model to the extreme. His restless, compulsive pushing came out of his rage. In the end that's what made Steinbeck great and what he'll be remembered for.

As the novel opens we meet George & Lenny, two poor, barely functioning agricultural workers. George is taking care of Lenny, although the reasons for his commitment aren't totally clear. Lenny is physically extremely strong but not all there in the head. George conforms more to a person of normal intelligence, but has tremendous coping challenges. In fact, the pair abruptly left an earlier job just before Lenny was arrested. They're currently on the run.

I don't think any reader could ever exactly fall in love with these two broken men. But Steinbeck presents them as fully human if not very smart. Lenny and George have dreams of saving their money so they can have a "stake" of their own. Together they want to purchase a ranch, raise rabbits, and eek out a future. Lenny, for one, is incapable of imagining a future where George isn't in his life as his caregiver.

It's almost as if "angry John" is daring us to fall in love with these two deplorable, downtrodden clay fragments. Yet their humanity, dreams, and devotion to one another, especially George's (because he's closer to being "normal" in intelligence) is strangely attractive. I ask, "What does George know about Lenny that we're missing?" Ultimately, I believe we must succumb to the humanity John Steinbeck invests in both characters.

How does Steinbeck turn the tale, and upend the story, so Lenny and George are ripped apart? He introduces a black stable hand by the name of Crooks. Because there are no other African-Americans in that part of California at that time (that Crooks knows of at least), segregation forces Crooks to live alone. Because he is lonely, and envious of George and Lenny's togetherness, and because George has gone off for a few hours to be with other ranch hands, he asks Lenny to imagine the rest of his life alone, without George. This terrorizes Lenny. He poses the question to Lenny that breaks Lenny's spirit: "But what if George didn't come back?" George does return, but Lenny's faith in George and himself is shaken. His psychic universe crumbles. That sends Lenny into a tailspin of despair that leads directly to him having a conversation with the wife of another ranch hand, named Candy, and to a misunderstanding between them that leads directly to George using his tremendous physical strength to inadvertently break Candy's neck. In the end, in a crude form of justice, George assassinates Lenny with a single bullet to his head while Lenny fantasizes about the rabbit ranch he and George will never have because Lenny knows he "did something very bad."

I read Of Mice & Men for the first time when I was in seventh grade. From the first moment I began reading it, from the very first page, I knew that if this author could cause me to care about Lenny and George, these two lost, misbegotten souls and what happens to them, I wanted to be a writer. (I didn't know at the time that an appetite for breaking hearts was an essential part of the job description.) What touched my heart was how radically different these two men were from one another. The miracle for me was that despite all their differences, Lenny and George wanted to be together in order to live out their "rabbit ranch" dreams.

They reminded me of people I knew as a young man who were together in life yet radically different. Since that day (without knowing it at the time) I've been on this path. To write about both the toll and the gift that depression, trauma, fear, distraction, dreams, desire, and mental disability have on the human spirit and its innate desire to fight, to vanquish, to overcome in heroic terms. Now, finally, my novel Charging the Jaguar is nearing its final form.

The Need to Read.

Authors don't write bestselling blockbusters by total accident, although that sometimes happens. They do it intentionally, with premeditation. (I'm not saying they should be locked up for doing it, either.) They only appear innocent as they cleverly weave tales that give off—metaphorically speaking—pheromones that trigger in readers' dark subconscious an uncontrollable urge to read, rendering readers powerless to stop turning pages.

One irresistible reason for reading a story (or participating in any form of entertainment) occurs when a writer opens a story with two characters who could not be more different from one another.

Think of Oliver & Hardy, the two-man standup British comedy act that started in Vaudeville in the 1920s and made Hollywood films in the 1930s, as a formula for greatness. One big, the other fat; one easily embarrassed, the other constantly an embarrassment.

Abbot & Costello? The same thing. One thin, the other, fat. One short, the other tall. One slow, the other fast. One usually representing "what society would generally say," and the "slow" one spouting funny comebacks that dislodge the viewer from complacency. They make us laugh.

That is precisely the formula John Steinbeck followed in his novel Of Mice & Men published in 1937, just before he published Grapes of Wrath in 1939. You have George, who is short and thin, the smart one, hanging out with Lenny, who is big, strong, and slow—"slow of mind."

What is the one pheromone all these "opposite pairs" give off that trigger "must see" or "must read" reactions among audiences? I submit this formula immediately sets off in the audience's mind a need to read, demanding answers: Why are these two total incompatibles, together? I suggest this formula suggests the unseen presence of a more powerful (Older? Smarter? Other directed? Wise parent figure? Or perhaps "wise author figure?") that commands these "obvious incompatibles" to be, and remain, together.

Steinbeck, as usual, doesn't play George and Lenny, his "odd couple," for laughs; rather, the author pushes the characters to the extreme, thereby introducing powerfully poignant and tragic themes into Of Mice and Men. That is John Steinbeck's genius; to push his characters to the extreme. To know that if he didn't, he'd have nothing more than a humorous, stand-up comic act.

He does his "pushing" by making Lenny seriously mentally disabled. George has to continually tell (and retell) Lenny basic what's-happening-here-and-now information because Lenny seems to have a serious short-term memory deficit. From one moment to the next Lenny isn't able to retain basic life-facts—where they're traveling to and for what purpose?

At the same time George comes off extremely self-centered, if not downright selfish. Yes, there it is again, that word we've run into so often that dates back to ancient Greece and the legend of the totally gorgeous young man who finds the love of his life staring back at him in a pool of water. We owe so much to Narcissus, don't we?

The Giant Mystery we wonder about is not why Lenny hangs out with George (Lenny is completely incapable of caring for himself) but why George, essentially a barely coping narcissist, wants to hang around with a mental case like Lenny.

In every other respect, George and Lenny adhere to the typical, comic trope. They're unexplainable opposites. Lenny is large and extremely strong, "shapeless of face" while George is "small and quick…" "Every part of him was defined…"

Any reader in 1937 would immediately think of George and Lenny as representing the inchoate form of all those Hollywood comedy stand-up acts they watched and enjoyed in the movie theaters as they read Steinbeck's words on page 2: "..two men emerged from the path and came into the opening by the green pool."

Then Steinbeck gives us the first clue to understanding these two: "They had walked in single file down the path, and even in the open one stayed behind the other." Wow. That speaks volumes about how they see themselves and their relationship to one another.

The very next sentence: "Both were dressed in denim trousers and in denim coats with brass buttons." What do you see? The way that sentence reads today makes them appear to be two cute clowns. I see a foreshadowing of Waiting for Godot, the absurdist play written in 1952 by Samuel Beckett. I think that in the 1930s those words would not be taken as describing anything cute. They would be taken to describe two "working stiffs," two bums, what a Marxist might call "two proletarians."

Then we get, on page 2, the first reference to Laurel & Hardy: "The first man stopped short in the clearing, and the follower nearly ran over him."

That's right out of Laurel & Hardy's book of stock comedy routines. Everyone reading that sentence when the book first appeared in 1937, read it that way. Of course, they'd laugh. And they would have intuitively known that Steinbeck was starting with the known, but was doing what all novelists are bound to do, forge into the scary unknown.

Here's my experience with this novel: I can vividly remember when I first read it when I was in seventh grade. It would be no exaggeration to say that the instant I read it, my head exploded. It affected me that fundamentally. It changed my life.

Why? Because as different as George and Lennie were, that was, by analogy, how different my brother Marty, then 16 years of age, and me (my name was Charlie and I was 12) were. I was chubbier but smaller; my brother was thinner and taller. He was smarter about academic subjects. I was more intuitive about non-academic subjects.

Why were George and Lenny together? I instantly knew why. The same reason why Marty and I were together: Both boys' parents insisted on it.

John Steinbeck very cleverly cuts readers who wish to use this "different brothers with parents" as a crutch off at the knees. He quickly establishes that these two are in no way related. That's brilliant because it requires the reader leave the known and push off into the unknown.

This is what I remember distinctly: From the first minutes I read the opening of Steinbeck's novel "Of Mice and Men" I knew I wanted to grow up to become a novelist who could write this kind of story that by subtext forces the reader to intuit the presence of a higher force (God?) who commands the two extremely unlikely characters to remain together.

Even today I see the story as being about two personalities who couldn't be farther apart, who have absolutely nothing in common, who might actually be the voices of a single consciousness. What if the entire novel took place inside the head of God, who, after all, is the author of everything?

It goes right back of Cain and Abel, doesn't it? "Am I my brother's keeper?" Perhaps thinking about the recent Palestinian-Israeli breakout of violence, maybe the answer to that profound question is this: "If we're not each other's keepers, we should be."

Next month: More thoughts about the John Steinbeck novel that inspired me to become a novelist.

Understanding the Writer I am Becoming by Understanding John Steinbeck's Writing.

William Souder's biography of John Steinbeck's life, entitled Mad at the World, is informed by the breakthrough observations of James Gray, a literary critic who set down in a "slim but penetrating monograph" (according to Souder) a thesis that amounts to nothing less than a breakthrough way of thinking about John Steinbeck's body of work. This is Gray's thesis: The common element underlying all of Steinbeck's disparate works was the author's anger. Souder wrote, "He was America's most pissed off writer."

"All [of Steinbeck's] work," Gray wrote, "steams with indignation at injustice, with contempt for false piety, with scorn for the cunning and self-righteousness of an economic system that encourages exploitation, greed, and brutality."

When my novel, Charging the Jaguar is published, I'll bet thoughtful readers (for example, every one of my ExcitingWriting Advisory subscribers) will find the same anger in my writing as they find in Steinbeck's. (By saying this I hope you won't misconstrue: I'm in no way comparing the quality of my writing to that of Steinbeck's. I'm only comparing my tone of voice to Steinbeck's.)

Please allow me at this juncture to make a sharp left turn in my argument. (It will all make sense in the end.) Two "conditions" all high-quality novels have in common: 1) One of the characters is always a stand-in for the author; it's usually what readers and critics call "the point-of-view character." 2) Sometimes if you follow the "stand-in" character closely throughout his or her story-arc, you can get a "bead" on how the author feels about the material he or she is writing about, and sometimes how the author feels about himself in relation to the other characters and the larger story he is writing. This may sound like "esoteric writer BS" to you. General readers needn't trouble themselves with these thoughts, but I submit to you: Those novels that lack a strong point-of-view or stand-in character are weak in other respects as well, so having an obvious stand-in character in a novel is actually a good thing, a very good thing.

In The Grapes of Wrath, the "stand-in character" is clear from the novel's opening pages: It's Tom, the young man just released from prison for good behavior.

On page 255 in the edition I'm reading, you have Al, one of Tom's uncles, talking to a newly introduced character about Tom. At this point in the novel, Tom isn't present, but Al is saying about him:

"Tom. He's quiet. But—look out."

The other man, the newcomer, responds saying, "Well I talked to him. He don't sound mean."

"Oh, he ain't. Just as nice as pie 'til he's roused, an' then—LOOK OUT!"

My point is that the same can be said of John Steinbeck, the author, and of his career. He can be the nicest guy—he was a great and loyal friend!—as helpful to everyone around him as all get-out, but if he gets angry or gets his back up against the wall, or if his stand-in character does, LOOK OUT! John Steinbeck used his anger to create unforgettable characters; his unforgettable characters made the whole world want to read his novels, the kind that are translated into 19 languages or more. That is how each of John Steinbeck's novels rose to bestseller status, and then, beyond that, to "perennial classic" status, and beyond even that, to simply "great," propelled by the stand-in character's rage in each one. Of course, in the case of The Grapes of Wrath, that means, propelled by Tom's anger.

Let me describe one instance in Grapes where Steinbeck's anger paved the way for an unforgettable character who comes and goes in just a handful of pages, but who I submit changes the tone of the entire novel:

It happens when Tom and Al both drive to a junkyard to find a part they need to repair their Model-T truck. The worker at the junkyard, who's dirty and slovenly, is described this way (with some of Steinbeck's finest descriptive writing): "One eye [of his] was gone and the raw, uncovered socket squirmed with eye muscles when his eye moved." (Page 177.) Then, "The man shambled close, his one eye flaring."

What happens next was a tremendous surprise to me: Until then I had gotten the idea that Tom (via John Steinbeck) supported all downtrodden workers. But here was one example where the opposite was true and I remember feeling very surprised that, Tom, the stand-in character for the author, comes out verbally attacking this junkyard worker. In fact the short scene requires us—no, forces us!—to think in a very nuanced way about what Steinbeck is in favor of in the case of most workers, and what he objects to about this specific worker. And that's another one of the scene's strengths.

When the junkyard worker, this grotesque man with only one eye, shows no interest in his boss's business, saying to Tom and Al, "You can burn the goddamned place down for all I care," (Pg. 179) Tom turns on him, saying, "You stink!" at one point and "Wash your face!" at another.

Steinbeck then has Tom make some horribly crass, obscene comments about the junkyard worker to Al, right in front of the worker. What Tom says about this poor, downtrodden worker is nothing less than horrible.

The short scene forces me to remember that the one thing Steinbeck always championed was not only poor people, but poor people who show tremendous dignity in the way they go about working their jobs and living their lives. Take Ma, for example:

In the final pages of the novel (around page 400) absolutely everything has gone horribly wrong for the Joad family: The preacher, Casey, was murdered by a strikebreaker in front of Tom, and Tom, seeing the injustice of it, in a fit of righteous anger, murdered the strikebreaker on the spot. Now Tom is a wanted man. Police and strikebreakers are looking for him. He has an open wound on his cheek that will give him away, that truly makes Tom "a marked man." The Joad family, now led by Ma, has to leave the migrant camp and move on so Tom won't be discovered hiding in a folded matrass in the truck that's piled up with the rest of the Joad family's belongings. The family has run out of food. They've run out of everything, even pepper. Ma makes a meal with the family's last pennies. She holds it, the meal, the family, together, just barely. She is the last bastion of dignity and self-respect. She demonstrates tremendous self-possession at the very worst time. It's tremendously moving to me due to the stark contrast we had with the junkyard worker hundreds of pages earlier who had allowed himself to become slovenly, and go around dirty and smelly, without a patch over his missing eye, not even caring about whether his employer's place of business thrives or is lost in a fire. (That line of dialogue is eerie to me: "You can burn the goddamned place down for all I care.")

To my way of thinking the entire novel turns on this night-and-day contrast between the junkyard worker and Ma. The junkyard worker is self-indulgent and lacks self-respect. He feels sorry for himself and has stopped caring if he grosses out the people around him or lives his life with even a shred of dignity and decency. Ma, on the other hand, is strong and disciplined. She never feels sorry for herself. She displays tremendous discipline even as the end closes in on her.

So the question I ask myself always comes down to this: Would this contrast have worked better if Steinbeck (via his stand-in character, Tom) had been less angry at the junkyard worker? If he had cut that guy some slack and felt sorry for him for not caring, for not taking showers, and for not wearing an eye patch? No, quite the opposite. It would have fallen flat. Steinbeck had to be 100% pissed off at the junkyard worker to have any hope of making the contrast be instructive to the reader, of getting the reader, in fact, to feel a deep love, admiration and respect for Ma in the final pages. You see, Steinbeck's approach only works when the stand-in character's anger is fanatically extreme. And that's why Steinbeck loves being mad at the world, and why I do, too. Wouldn't have it any other way.

Understanding Grapes of Wrath: Death on the Road

There was one part of The Grapes of Wrath story that moved me to tears when I first read Steinbeck's novel in high school; so much so, I recalled it clearly when I re-read it only a few months ago.

The sections of the novel particularly moving to me were those that portrayed the death of the Joad grandfather as the family left Oklahoma, and later on, the death of the grandmother as they entered California. Both died while the family was on the road; the grandfather was literally buried by the side of the road. Those passages reminded me of what my mother told me about my grandfather who passed away before I was born; they also brought up for me memories of my grandmother who passed away when I was ten. (I grew up with my maternal grandmother living with my family.)

In Grapes, we're prepared for the grandfather passing by other characters' expressing concern about the health of another character, Rose of Sharon, a young woman who is expecting to give birth momentarily. Then we witness a dog being run over by a truck. (Yes, another small animal dies.) Then the grandfather is asked if he feels ill.

"You Goddamn right," said Grampa weakly. "Sicker'n Hell." He's dead of a stroke a few sentences later.

One of the characters expresses the thought the Grandpa started dying as soon as they left the farm. He couldn't stand to leave it. And that was what broke him.

Grapes of Wrath not only helps us understand the extent of economic agony suffered by so many Americans during The Great Depression of the 1930's; it helps me understand what my own family went through during that time. The novel dramatizes the swift and sudden reduction in the standard of living the Depression brought on for so many Americans;and how decisive it was in breaking people's spirits, health, and, ultimately, bringing on their untimely death.

In the last few months I had the good fortune of watching Ken Burns' six-part documentary series, Portrait of the Roosevelts, so, not surprisingly, thoughts about The Great Depression have been with me as we have all witnessed our country and the entire world rocked by the ravages of the Covid Pandemic. Aside from the horrible death toll, the pandemic has spread enough economic misery around the world to remind everyone (who wishes to be reminded) of The Great Depression.

I remember growing up and being told that during most of 1930s, my maternal grandfather, Sol Lieberman, owned and operated a menswear custom tailoring shop in East New York, Brooklyn, New York. He and his wife, Celia, lived in an apartment above the store. My mother, Edna and her two sisters, Pearl (older) and Doris (younger), grew up in that apartment above the store. As The Depression, which began with the Wall Street Crash of 1929, worsened through the1930s, Sol's once prosperous custom-tailoring business began to falter, not only because times were tough, but because ready-made suits, already sold in stores, began to be carried in catalogues which became increasingly popular nationwide throughout the 1930s.

Just as agricultural commodity prices collapsed (affecting the fortunes of the real-life Oklahoma farmers the Joad family is modeled after), deflation in the 1930s nibbled away at prices and profit margins for everything, including custom-made men's suits. During the first and second presidential terms of Franklin Delano Roosevelt the American people were suffering through the modern-day Fed Bank's worst nightmare, deflation, wherein the less businesses charge for goods and services, the less money everyone has to purchase them.

By the end of the 1930s, Sol Lieberman's business was winding down. My father, Phil Lustig married Sol and Celia's daughter, Edna, and opened retail ladies' garment stores in New Jersey, first in New Brunswick, and then in Plainfield, a town to the north, in the center of the state. Phil was able to purchase a home in North Plainfield with a few extra bedrooms; Sol and Celia closed the store in East New York and headed west across the Hudson River to Plainfield. My mother's sisters, Doris and Pearl, also married and moved to Plainfield. My older brother, Marty, was born in the fall of 1941.

My father tried to put his father-in-law's talents to work in the Plainfield store, but his health deteriorated. He passed away while my mother was carrying me. By the time I came along in April of 1945, Sol was the grandpa I never got to meet.

I often wondered if like, grandpa Joad in Grapes of Wrath, Sol's death actually began years earlier when the new economic realities and customer preferences of the Depression forced him to leave his home in Brooklyn, an urban place he loved, and venture forth to a bustling suburb that was so dependent on automobiles, and to an ill-fitting way of life the men's tailor must have found strange at best, too big in some places, too tight in others. And then there was the thought of him working in his son-in-law's business. Could there be any question his heart wasn't in it?

By the time I attended high school and read Grapes of Wrath my family and I had already mourned Sol's death as well as the death of his wife, my Grandma Celia. She had always been the strength of our immediate family that was now centered in Plainfield and North Plainfield. It was 1955. A massive stroke took her away. I was ten years old at the time.

It should come as no surprise to you that this John Steinbeck novel along with another work of his, Of Mice and Men, both had something to do with me deciding to turn to writing novels late in my life.

I found inspiration and solace in novels that looked at life and death unflinchingly. I'm grateful to have been inspired by the best.

My Grapes of Wrath: A Life-Long Journey.

John Steinbeck's Grapes of Wrath, originally published in 1939, tells the story of economic hardship in the Oklahoma Panhandle in 1937. A severe drought, made worse by poor agricultural practices and collapsing commodity prices, caused many family farms in the Panhandle (and in surrounding States) to fail and the farmers to be displaced. The drought triggered what was dubbed "The Great Dust Bowl." The displaced farmers were called "Okies." Once the land they farmed was returned to the banks for non-payment of their loans, Okies became homeless, jobless and penniless practically overnight.

 

Many Okies left Oklahoma in their Model "T" Ford trucks piled high with their belongings, following Route 66 headed for the fertile valleys of California where they had been told there were plenty of jobs available for "pickers," migrant laborers who helped vegetable farmers and fruit tree growers in California's fertile valleys pick their bumper-crop harvests. Unfortunately, unknown to the Okies as they drove west with their foreclosed farms in their rearview mirrors (and memories), so many displaced Okies arrived in California looking for work, their numbers depressed the wages they could earn as pickers. Economic disaster (It's the Fed Bank's worst nightmare, called "disinflation") stalked Okies wherever they went.

The Great Depression was a generational catastrophe far worse than the Covid-driven economic agony we're currently suffering through. A key reason: It lasted so long. The Depression began in October 1929 and only let up as the United States began gearing up for World War II in 1940. It was far worse than any other economic downtown America has ever experienced.

 

When you read the longer, more complicated, adult version of The Grapes of Wrath (rather than the simplified, shortened, expurgated version so many of us read in high school), you'll find it rewarding in the long run, although you might find it slow in places; and, overall, uneven.

This time around I noticed how often in Grapes of Wrath, instant death gets meted out to insects and small animals. To me it's analogous to how often Okies' spirits get instantly crushed under the weight of the tragedy they endure as they leave Oklahoma, and journey to California only to learn that, far from California being the Promised Land, their suffering has just begun.

In the novel's opening pages, a grasshopper finds its way into the cab of a truck that the principal protagonist, Tom Joad, is riding in. I remembered reading these exact words when I was in high school: "A grasshopper flipped through the window and lighted on top of the instruments panel… Joad reached forward and crushed its hard skull-like head with his fingers, and he let it into the wind stream out the window."

Strangely, I also recalled reading about a land turtle. I thought, surely I had imagined that. But, no, as I was reading the novel this time, there it was, the tough, strong land turtle, as indomitable as ever. When, early on in the adult version of the novel, an entire chapter is devoted to the land turtle's wanderings, I thought perhaps Steinbeck planned to turn him into a recurring character.

I also noticed that just a bit later we read about "Cats," or the Caterpillar Tractors used in the Panhandle by the foreclosed land's new owners to essentially push houses off their foundations and make them inhabitable. With a single blow by a "Cat" the Okies were chased off what once was their land, not only making them  homeless but forcing them to "move on."

 

The way the turtle's powerful legs  are described, and the way the Cats are described effortlessly pushing over houses are comparable. I believe a close reading of the "grown-up" version of The Grapes of Wrath makes it clear that John Steinbeck knew exactly what he was doing all along.

 

By the way, that land turtle I mentioned earlier very nearly gets run over by a truck, the same truck the grasshopper earlier jumped onboard.

A few pages later, we witness nothing less than a genuine turtle-tragedy, when Mr. Turtle flips over on his back as he mounts a curb, and, for a time, has all four of his powerful legs wiggling ineffectually in the air, until Tom Joad, happens upon him after leaving the truck. He picks him up, drapes him in his unworn jacket and carries him under his arm. He later tells another character he intends to give the turtle as a gift to one of the children in Tom's family.

A new biography of John Steinbeck authored by William Souder, a noted literary biographer, was published in 2020. A previous biography of his about Rachel Carson was recognized by The New York Times as "notable." Another he wrote about the life of John Audubon was a Pulitzer Prize finalist. It's extraordinarily telling to me that Souder titled his newest work, Mad at the World: A Life of John Steinbeck. (I can't wait to read it.)

Now that I'm writing this essay and thinking about my reading experiences with Grapes and also remembering the John Hawks-directed movie of the novel starring Henry Fonda, I do believe "Hank" Fonda played that early scene (in which Fonda is riding in the cab of the truck) spot-on. The driver tries to politely find out where Tom Joad, who he had just picked up as a hitchhiker, spent the last four years of his life. The driver defends himself, saying, at one point, "Well, that ain't none of my affair," and at another point, "I ain't a nosy guy." That's when Tom Joad unloads on him, saying, "The Hell you ain't. That big old nose a yours been stickin' out eight miles ahead of your face. You had that big nose goin' over me like a sheep in a vegetable patch." A short while later Tom allows, "I done time." Then, as they arrive where Tom asks to be dropped off, he tells the driver, "I know you're wettin' your pants to know what I done. Well, I ain't a guy to let you down."

As the driver stops to let Tom off, Tom says a single word, "Homicide." Then he adds, "That's a big word. Means I killed a guy. Seven years. I'm sprung in four for keeping my nose clean."

Tom Joad sure knew how to make a vivid first impression on that truck driver. Ditto John Steinbeck, allowing his anti-hero, Tom Joad, to make a vivid first impression on The Grapes of Wrath readers.

Ask yourself about the hitchhiker in that scene: Are those not the words of a guy who, as William Souder put it, is "mad at the world?" I think so. Indeed, I can't wait to read Souder's biography. (The opening pages of his biography read like Steinbeck himself might have written them. (Wow!)

What I learned from John Steinbeck-V: The Grapes of Wrath, Sixty Years Later: "My, how you've grown!"

When I first read The Grapes of Wrath in high school, it was a short, snappy, action story about the plight of the homeless Joad family during the Great Depression. The version of The Grapes of Wrath I read in high school was a highly redacted or Reader's Digest version of the novel, not just shortened but also expurgated, i.e., passages thought to be too explicit for young people were excluded.

Now, as I read the entire work some sixty years later for the first time, I want to exclaim, "My, how you've grown!" That is to say, "My, how what is arguably John Steinbeck's greatest novel has grown in length, detail, complexity of story, subtlety of character development and richness of overall artistic expression."

The unexpurgated version has a curious yet fascinating chapter-structure that makes it ripe for widespread editing and excising:

The even-numbered chapters (yes, by that I mean chapters 2, 4, 6, etc.) tell the Joad-family story, the shortened, clean, action-oriented version of the story I read when I was in high school. It's also the Academy Award-winning story you might have seen on the silver screen starring the great Henry Fonda and brilliantly directed by John Ford. The story told in the film, i.e., the even-numbered chapters, is the story with which you're probably already familiar: Tom Joad who has just been released early on parole from prison (having been imprisoned for murder) returns home to his family just as his parents, siblings, aunt and uncle and their children are about to leave the Oklahoma Panhandle for California. The Joad-family farm and the uncle's farm have been repossessed by the bank after their crops failed due to drought and poor agricultural practices that worsened the effects of the drought. Tom's father and uncle have read "circulars" stating there were plenty of jobs for migrant "pickers" of fruits and vegetables in the fertile California valleys. The Joad family decides to leave for California in the uncle's Model T truck.

The odd-numbered chapters (chapters 1, 3, 5, 7, etc.) provide a motherload of rich added-value material. They're sidelights, many of which have the qualities one might find in a classic New York Times "Reporter's Notebook" article. In fact, John Steinbeck was commissioned to write a seven-part series for The San Francisco News that was published under the title, "The Harvest Gypsies." It wouldn't be surprising to me if in covering the real-life tragedy unfolding in the San Fernando Valley, Steinbeck may have uncovered and developed a great many of the thoughts and observations that he subsequently worked into these odd-numbered chapters.

Some sixty years after I read the work for the first time, I'm reading the odd-numbered intermediary chapters combined with the even-numbered Joad-family chapters, and I am appreciating the rich, artistic experience Steinbeck had in mind when he first wrote The Grapes of Wrath in the mid-1930s. Reading it in the way Steinbeck originally intended the work does require more patience and care than reading the Reader's Digest "student version."

One example: Steinbeck devotes an entire intermediary chapter, Chapter Three, to describing what happens in a torn-up patch of grass by the side of a concrete highway. He describes, "the grass heads heavy with oat beards to catch on a dog's coat, and foxtails to tangle in a horse's fetlocks, and clover burrs to fasten in sheep's wool…"

I have always admired Steinbeck's eye for detail and his willingness to go "microscopic." He often allows his focus to include insects and small animals that inhabit this tiny patch of landscape: "The sun lay on the grass and warmed it, and in the shade under the grass the insects moved, ants and ant lions to set traps for them, grasshoppers to jump into the air and flick their yellow wings for a second, sow bugs like armadillos, plodding restlessly on many tender feet."

Into this patch of grass, this micro-environment by the side of a concrete road, lumbers a single turtle: "And over the grass at the roadside a land turtle crawled, turning aside for nothing, dragging his high-domed shell over the grass, not really walking, but boosting and dragging his shell along."

For paragraphs we follow the painfully slow progress of this turtle as it moves over rough terrain: "The back legs went to work, straining like elephant legs…"

Presently, the turtle overcomes hurdles and crawls onto the highway where it is nearly hit by "a forty-year-old woman" driving a "sedan." We readers hold our collective breath. The car swerves to avoid the turtle. "The turtle had jerked into its shell, but now it hurried on, for the highway was burning hot." And now a light truck almost flattens the turtle but only manages to flip the turtle on its back: "Lying on its back, the turtle was tight in its shell for a long time. But at last its legs waved in the air, reaching for something to pull itself over which it finally manages to do. Chapter 3 ends telling us the turtle's "old humorous eyes looked ahead, and the horny beak opened a little. His yellow toe nails slipped a fraction in the dust."

Why does Steinbeck focus on the affairs of insects by the side of the highway and then proceed to narrate the adventures of a lowly land turtle for an entire chapter in his novel (even if Chapter Three takes up only a tiny bit more than two pages)? Perhaps because his democratic values insist that non-humnan stories can have value and should be honored by being told? I'd say, "yes" to that. But there are story-structure reasons that also justify it: In Chapter 4, a truck that in Chapter 2 gave an unnamed distinctfully-yet-strangely dressed man a ride, and which is the same truck in Chapter 3 that nearly ran over the turtle, drops the same man off by the side of the road. For the first time our narrator gives the man a name, but only a last name, "Joad."

Joad removes his bright yellow shoes, places them under his arm and starts walking through the dust in his bare feet.  A page later he picks up the turtle. Some pages after that we learn he intends to bring it home as a gift. After another page of description, Joad meets "Reverend" Jim Casey, and in a way, that's when our story begins in the traditional sense with dialogue and description.

Does this novel have a slow start? It does. It starts as slowly as a turtle. (By the way I don't recall in high school The Grapes of Wrath I read having a slow start; perhaps it got off to a faster start thanks to further editing.

In the "grown-up" version of the novel, we get the distinct impression the author doesn't mind the slow start; he's intent on not allowing even the most minute details escape his and the reader's purview.

Next month, more about how the structure of the unexpurgated version of The Grapes of Wrath even when addressing emotionally explosive topics like sexual assault in the workplace, adds depth and artistic richness to the entire novel.

What I learned from John Steinbeck-IV: The Great Dust Bowl, from Fact to Fiction.

By 1936, the Great Depression and the economic devastation it wrought had been punishing the American people for six hard years. While Franklin Delano Roosevelt, the 32nd U.S. President, had just been inaugurated months earlier, his New Deal policies had yet to brighten the bleak mood of the American people.

Meanwhile, in the Oklahoma Panhandle, poor agricultural practices combined with chronic drought turned farmers' topsoil to dust along with any prospects they might have had for a harvest, no matter how paltry.

Prevailing winds picked up the dust (formerly rich topsoil from the Oklahoma Panhandle) and transported it an easterly direction.

When mud-brown, billowing clouds started drifting over New York City a few days later, a journalist coined the term "Dust Bowl" to describe what was happening in Oklahoma, and the name stuck for all time.

While the clouds carried the topsoil east, many Oklahoma farmers having no way to repay the loans they had taken out to plant their crops that spring, headed west. Economically ruined, but hearing enticing stories about their being "plenty of jobs to be had" in California,they packed up their belongings in their family Model-T Fords and followed Route 66 from Oklahoma to California.

Unfortunately, far more "Oakies" were arriving in the fertile San Fernando Valley than were needed as laborers to harvest the crops. Uprooted from Oklahoma but now penniless, with nothing to eat, slim prospects for work, and no place to go, the Oakies crowded into migrant labor camps that had been set up by the State of California to feed and house them and relieve their suffering.

That same year the San Francisco News, sensing a humanitarian tragedy in the making essentially on their doorstep, commissioned novelist John Steinbeck to write a seven-part series titled Harvest Gypsies about the plight of the displaced "Okies." The articles he wrote were published in October and early November of 1936.

(Of course the circumstances causing it are totally different, but if you've heard about the "camp" for displaced Middle-eastern immigrants that sprang up and still exists in Calais, France, it might provide an instructive modern-day analogy to what was going on in the San Fernando Valley in the fall of 1936. The overcrowding and dangerously poor health conditions in the Calais camp, especially during the Covid Pandemic, bespeak the plight of an abjectly poor, displaced and highly vulnerable group of economic refugees, which can be compared and contrasted with the plight of the "Oakies" in 1936.

Even before 1936, the State of California had set up a number of migrant labor camps to serve itinerant laborers and help alleviate suffering by housing them in humane conditions.

Tom Collins, the director of one of those migrant camps, the one called "The Arvin," wrote a series of reports about the conditions experienced by the Okies as they flooded into the California camps.

Of course, Steinbeck visited the camps himself and conducted interviews with the migrant laborers there, but knowing the controversy that was likely to be aroused by his passionate defense of the "Okies" as being exploited by a corrupt system gone awry, the author used Collins reports in researching his San Francisco News articles, as well as when he drafted his Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, The Grapes of Wrath first published in 1939. In Steinbeck's writer's journal, which he kept at the time, he wrote, "I need this stuff [Collin's reports]. It is exact and just the thing that will be used against me if I am wrong." He certainly comprehended the sensitive and controversial nature of what he was writing about.

Eighteen of Collins's reports are available on EDSITEment.com, which is a National Endowment for the Arts website devoted to "driving excellence in humanities education."

According to the website, "comparing the reports to The Grapes of Wrath offers students a rare look into a writer's process of converting nonfiction material into fiction."

In coming months I will explore what I consider this "rare find," but in the remainder of this essay, I'd like to emphasize that in my view the power and authenticity of Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath, the Pulitzer Prize-winning epic tale of the Joad family, derive from it being scrupulously fact-based. I believe the passion very much in evidence in Steinbeck's voice as you read his work derives from the truth of it, as if the work itself wants to cry out and say, "What you're reading was once an American tragedy that happened to so many families just like the Joads during those very dark days."

 

If one simply reads chapter one, which is only four pages in length, one immediately understands this is a work of fiction based on fact:

"The sun flared down on the growing corn day after day until a line of brown spread along the edge of each green bayonet."

Without ever using the word "drought" or ever coming out and telling the reader that Steinbeck here is describing the climatic conditions that bring a stubborn drought into existence, the author patiently describes the pre-conditions for drought, until, "The dawn came, but no day. In the gray sky a red sun appeared, a dim red circle that gave a little light, like dusk; and as the day advanced, the dusk slipped back toward darkness, and the wind cried and whimpered over the fallen corn.

"Men and women huddled in their houses, and they tied handkerchiefs over their noses when they went out, and wore goggles to protect their eyes."

Sounds a little like life during Covid, doesn't it? The pervasive sadness is the same as during a pandemic. I think it's the ever-present and inescapable notion that something very fundamental is very wrong. In the case of Steinbeck's Grapes of Wrath, we find that along with damaging crops, drought damages human beings' spirits:

"The men were silent and they did not move often. And the women came out of the houses to stand beside their men—to feel whether this time the men would break… Horses came to the watering troughs and nuzzled the water to clear the surface dust. After a while the faces of the watching men lost their bemused perplexity and became hard and angry and resistant… Women and children knew deep in themselves that no misfortune was much to bear if their men were whole. The women went into the houses; their hands were busy with sticks and little rocks. The men sat still—thinking—figuring."

Steinbeck's writing here is spiritual, spare and elegiac; the deep sadness the people feel is evident; as well, the extra weight placed on the men just to comprehend what is happening to them, no less find a solution. Indeed, before Steinbeck has finished telling his story some men will be broken and some families, ripped apart.

Next month, more about how Steinbeck dramatized the real human tragedy occurring in Oklahoma and California in 1936 by inventing the Joad family and telling its story.