Author: John Steinbeck

Work: Grapes of Wrath

My book is Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck, which I first read when I was at university in the 1960s. I have read it again a few times since. It is an epic tale of biblical proportions, about a family’s flight from slavery in Oklahoma towards the promised land (California) where of course there is more cruelty and slavery, and the promise (central to the American dream) is shown to be a cruel hoax. The slow downfall of the family is mitigated now and then by individual acts of human courage and kindness. There is a fierce anger and outrage that runs through the book, and through me too when I read it, about a cruel and unjust system which grids people down and ultimately kills what is human in them. This applies as much to those in the position of master or perpetrator as to those who are the victims or slaves. In fact the victims keep their humanity better and longer. Towards the end of the book the image I recall most strongly is that of a young woman who has lost her new baby and who uses her breast milk to suckle a starving man. This is meant to be shocking and to stir people to action—which it did to some extent. But Grapes of Wrath is not a panegyric for socialism or any other –ism; rather it is a superb narrative wonderfully told, with memorable voices and language. I may need to go read it again…

The Grapes of Wrath
by John Steinbeck

Rose of Sharon whispered, ‘Will—will you all—go out?’ The rain whisked lightly on the roof.
Ma leaned forward and with her palm she brushed the tousled hair back from her daughter’s forehead, and she kissed her on the forehead. Ma got up quickly. ‘Come on, you fellas,’ she called. ‘You come out in the tool shed.’
Ruthie opened her mouth to speak. ‘Hush,’ Ma said. ‘Hush and git.’ She herded them through the door, drew the boy with her; and she closed the squeaking door.
For a minute Rose of Sharon sat still in the whispering barn. Then she hoisted her tired body up and drew the comfort about her. She moved slowly to the corner and stood looking down at the wasted face, into the wide, frightened eyes. Then slowly she lay down beside him. He shook his head slowly from side to side. Rose of Sharon loosened one side of the blanket and bared her breast. ‘You got to,’ she said. She squirmed closer and pulled his head close. ‘There!’ she said. ‘There.’ Her hand moved behind his head and supported it. Her fingers moved gently in his hair. She looked up and across the barn, and her lips came together and she smiled mysteriously.

(Quoted from John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath. London: Penguin, 2000. p. 536. Permission to publish not yet granted.)