STEINBECK. AGAIN.
John Steinbeck is one of the names that echo down the corridors of American literature because many people relish his pieces of literature, and I belong to these Steinbeck’s aficionados. So far, I have read two absorbing but strikingly different novels by him, namely ‘The Grapes of Wrath’ and ‘The Winter of Our Discontent.’ The books let me appreciate the versatility of the author and his profound approach to portraying human nature. The remembrance of how it was engrossing to read Steinbeck’s works stirred me to get acquainted with one of his ‘most ambitious and inspirational novels.’
So, this semester I am reading ‘East of Eden,’ and I am both jubilant and apprehensive about it because I am aware that the story will be challenging for me. Although I have read only a fourth of the book (that is around 180–190 pages out of 790), I can say for sure that it is a multi-layered, character-focused, and highly introspective novel that sometimes leaves me a bit disheartened.
As for the plot itself, it follows a few generations of two families, the Trasks and the Hamiltons, and depicts how they interact and intersect with each other. I cannot dwell upon the plot yet because, so far, the narration has been chiefly focused on the scene-setting descriptions and backstory building, much like it was in ‘The Grapes of Wrath.’ To tell the truth, the books share a similar philosophy in terms of the narrative structure because I have noticed that the chapters that take the story forward alternate with the ones that build the story (though it is less vivid in comparison to ‘The Grapes of Wrath.’)
Interestingly, the story-building chapters were such a torture for me last year (and I still remember those two tedious (but metaphorical) chapters about a turtle crossing the road). Though I did appreciate the brilliant language, I was not necessarily savoring the content itself. However, something has changed. Apparently, I have somehow reached the level of genuine appreciation of thorough descriptions; they seem absorbing now (!!!). Just read the following mesmerizing paragraph that I have perused so many times (by the way, it is the third paragraph of the book):
I remember that the Gabilan Mountains to the east of the valley were light gay mountains full of sun and loveliness and a kind of invitation, so that you wanted to climb into their warm foothills almost as you want to climb into the lap of a beloved mother. They were beckoning mountains with a brown grass love. The Santa Lucias stood up against the sky to the west and kept the valley from the open sea, and they were dark and brooding — unfriendly and dangerous. I always found in myself a dread of west and a love of east. Where I ever got such an idea I cannot say, unless it could be that the morning came over the peaks of the Gabilans and the night drifted back from the ridges of the Santa Lucias. It may be that the birth and death of the day had some part in my feeling about the two ranges of mountains.
Honestly, I am eager to continue reading the novel, slowly unwrapping its characters and discovering more not only about them but also about me.
P.S. I am reading the e-book. For that reason, there is a possibility that my vision will deteriorate to the point of no return; however, I am sure the book is worth it. *laughing nervously*
