When you collect marine animals there are certain flat worms so delicate that they are almost impossible to capture whole, for they break and tatter under the touch. You must let them ooze and crawl of their own will onto a knife blade and then lift them gently into your bottle of sea water. And perhaps that might be the way to write this book – to open the page and to let the stories crawl in by themselves.
Could it be that a book I loved at the age of thirteen or fourteen would have the same effect on me fifty years later? The answer in the case of Steinbeck’s Cannery Row is a resounding yes. Continue reading “Cannery Row: a poem, a stink, a dream”