John Steinbeck, voice of warm sand and chewed-up glass

It was my intent, after finishing Ulysses (and then Brave New World, which I'll write about later), to pick up Dave Eggers' What is the What, which I'd started reading in January while Grandma was dying. I couldn't get into it then, but thought that was just a result of reading it in hospice. Well, I opened it on Tuesday, and have advanced from page 86, where I'd left off, to page 122. Not bad, though since Tuesday I've also started and finished Kurt Vonnegut's 1965 novel God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, and John Steinbeck's 1942 novel The Moon is Down, a total of 467 pages.

God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater was good, but not remarkable. A funny book, Vonnegut states the moral as often as he lights up his Pall Malls. While enjoyable, there is no surprise, and the ending feels abrupt. Nonetheless, I wish I could write like Vonnegut.

What I really want to talk about is John Steinbeck. Not only The Moon is Down, but the man in general. I guess it's fitting that I mentioned Vonnegut, because, while Vonnegut is the most famous humanist in contemporary literature, Steinbeck was no slouch when it came to believing in mankind. But where Vonnegut's humanism is slightly sarcastic and blatantly realistic (mankind's repeated failures don't surprise him), Steinbeck maintained an incredibly passionate, idealistic sense of what it meant to be human. Both believed that mankind was deeply flawed, but while I get the feeling that Vonnegut was resigned to these flaws, Steinbeck thought that man had the ability to save himself. He was a strong proponent of independent thought, of the arts, of writing, and of his writing. To say that he believed in his writing is not to say he was an egoist. I think Mr. Steinbeck says it best:

"The writer must believe that what he is doing is the most important thing in the world. And he must hold to this illusion even when he knows it is not true."

My ex-girlfriend believes I'm an incredibly arrogant asshole. One of the reasons is because I really want to write something that significantly impacts people. She probably thinks I want this because impact means fame, which means lots of people will claim to like me and lots of women will sleep with me because I'll be rich. No. I just want to be able to affect people the way I have been affected by literature. I think this is exactly the motive that Steinbeck had as well.

A collection of his journalism and selected non-fiction, America and Americans, is divided into sections based upon subject matter. In the intro to the miscellaneous section, the editors remark that Steinbeck "loved to address his prose to a particular audience...." Much of his Vietnam journalism comes in the form of letters to a woman named Alicia. Who she is, I don't know. An actual person, or simply a name to put on a paper, it doesn't matter. So many writers, usually pricks, say that they write only for themselves, and that writing for anyone else isn't as noble or pure; it is artistic compromise. But those are the kinds of writers who roll their own cigarettes for style, wear sunglasses in the dark, drink red wine and praise Nietzsche without having read him. I don't see how anyone can consider himself a writer, or at least how a writer can desire to be published, if he doesn't believe he has something to share with others.

I read The Moon is Down in two hours, no kidding. Only 188 pages, but I was still proud of myself. The book is about hope, perseverance, never giving up, even in the face of great odds. Sounds cliché, but Steinbeck succeeds with this theme where a weaker writer might fail. Read this book and tell me if you ever see the author in it. Steinbeck's style is there, but in no way would you imagine him sitting down telling this story, whereas, with Vonnegut for example, it is easy to see that Vonnegut is pleading through his characters. The Moon is Down is like a Gus Van Sant movie; detached from the text, the camera simply floats, and does not judge. This detachment allows the characters to be completely independent, actual beings in an actual world, and not the product of someone's thoughts. You might call this believability the 'ficitonal dream.' Never once does Steinbeck break from it.

The point of view is third-person omniscient. Though it stays fairly objective throughout, occasionally the narrative dips into internal monologue, and it does this for multiple characters. It would be safer to call it third-person objective with forays into omniscience. This narration allows for every character to be a human being. The reader can sympathize just as much with the invading army as with the conquered villagers. Mayor Orden and Colonel Lanser, though enemies by circumstance, are emotional equals. Even Captain Loft, the easiest to hate, is a human with needs and desires and vulnerabilities.

This novel is also a wonderful example of an essential setting. Thematically, it could take place anywhere, because mankind shares a certain kind of spirit. Nonetheless, Steinbeck pays careful attention to the layout of the town. The winter backdrop is fitting to the cold emotions between the army and the citizens. And what better setting for the low point of man, war, than the low point of the year, when all is dark, cold, wet, drab? And what better metaphor for the eternal shine of human hope than snow, which falls pure, and glints just as well at the height of day as it does in moonlight?

The more I want to say abou this novel, the less I can think to write. Read it. It is not a demanding book. Never does Steinbeck ask you for your understanding or your interest. He simply presents a story to you. But the story is like a lone bird flying into a storm; you can't help but to care for it, and be moved.