Cannery Row: a poem, a stink, a dream

Cannery Row: a poem, a stink, a dream

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”

Travels with Charley: Steinbeck looks for America

Inspired by Melvyn Bragg’s recent BBC 4 documentary about John Steinbeck, I thought I’d re-read some of his novels that I last encountered as a teenager.  But first, because it was mentioned in Bragg’s film and because R’s reading group recently read and enjoyed it, I began with Travels With Charley: In Search of America, a book I’d never read before.

Travels With Charley is an account of a road trip across the United States taken by Steinbeck in 1960 with his French standard poodle, Charley.  I came away a little underwhelmed, though it’s an enjoyable reads and I found aspects of Steinbeck’s journey and his sceptical take on America in the early sixties interesting and revealing of his character.  Steinbeck sets off hoping to find the answer to the question, ‘What are Americans like today?’  In the event, he discovers  many aspects of America in the 1960s that disappoint him.

At the outset, Steinbeck writes that his motivation for the odyssey is to ‘know my own country’, having realised that after a quarter of a century settled in New York he knew the country ‘only from books and newspapers’, and ‘in a so-called writer this is criminal’.  But there is something else: despite deteriorating health (he had suffered a stroke in 1959) and getting on in years, he still feels ‘the urge to be someplace else … the sound of the jet, an engine warming up, even the clumping of shod hooves on pavement brings on the ancient shudder’. In his younger days Steinbeck had wandered all over but he finds ‘the urge for going’ remains just as strong: ‘I was assured that maturity would cure this itch … now that I’m 58 perhaps senility will do the job’.  According to Thom Steinbeck, the author’s oldest son, the real reason for the trip was that Steinbeck knew he was dying and wanted to see his country one last time. Thom says he was surprised that Steinbeck’s wife let Steinbeck  make the trip: because of his heart condition he could have died at any time.

Steinbeck's truck, Rocinante, now on display at the Steinbeck Center in Salinas

Steinbeck prepared carefully for the journey – this was to be no young man’s On The Road. He had a truck fitted with a custom camper on the back and named it ‘Rocinante’ after the hero’s horse in Cervantes’ Don Quixote.  He describes loading it down with everything he could conceive of needing on the trip – from the kitchen sink to a whole library of reference books (today, he’d just take a wifi-enabled laptop).

At the time Steinbeck spent his summers in Sag Harbour, then a small fishing village on Long Island.  It was from there that he planned to set off in late summer. But in the opening section of the book Steinbeck describes vividly how his departure was delayed due to Hurricane Donna . He gives a vivid account of saving his boat at the height of the storm and then swimming to shore through crashing waves.  It seems like a metaphor for his state of mind – fearless, even reckless – as he prepares to dive into the unknown on his continental journey.

Map of Steinbeck's Travels (first edition)

Like William Least-Heat Moon in Blue Highways, Steinbeck prefers to take back roads ‘not conducive to speed’, rather than the highways, ‘the great high-speed slashes of concrete and tar’ that cross the nation.  He finds solace in parking Rocinante by a clear lake on a quiet country road to see overhead ‘the arrows of southing ducks and geese’.  In contrast, he describes being sucked into a vortex of traffic that sweeps him past the ‘noble twin cities of St Paul and Minneapolis’:

The traffic struck me like a tidal wave and carried me along, a bit of shiny flotsam bounded in front by a gasoline truck half a block long. Behind me was an enormous cement mixer on wheels, its big howitzer revolving as it proceeded. On my right was what I judged to be an atomic cannon. As usual I panicked and got lost.

He concludes that the highways are ‘wonderful for moving goods but not for inspection of a countryside’ and predicts that in the future ‘it will be possible to drive from New York to California without seeing a single thing’.

On his travels, Steinbeck encounters a new breed of American nomads, living in luxurious mobile homes, then just coming onto the market. One night he parks up alongside a married couple who invite him into their palatial home. They talk of a new way of living – if you don’t like a place, just pick up and leave.  Steinbeck is intrigued: ‘One of our most treasured feelings concerns roots, growing up rooted in some soil or some community. How did they feel about raising their children without roots?

The husband answers: ‘How many people today have what you are talking about? What roots are there in an apartment twelve floors up? What roots are in a housing development of hundreds and thousands of small dwellings almost exactly alike ? My father came from Italy.  He grew up in Tuscany in a house where his family had lived maybe a thousand years. That’s roots for you, no running water, no toilet, and they cooked with charcoal or vine clippings. They had just two rooms, a kitchen and a bedroom where everybody slept, grandpa, father and all the kids, no place to read, no place to be alone, and never had had. Was that better’

But, wonders Steinbeck, ‘Don’t you miss some kind of permanence?’ ‘Who’s got permanence?’ is the response. ‘Factory closes down, you move on. Good times and things opening up,  you move on to where it’s better. You got roots you sit and starve. You take the pioneers in the history books. They were movers. Take up land, sell it, move on. I read in a book how Lincoln’s family came to Illinois on a raft. They had some barrels of whisky for a bank account. How many kids in America stay in the place where they were born, if they can get out?’

Later the couple show Steinbeck magazines designed exclusively for mobile dwellers: ‘stories and poems and hints for successful mobile living. … advertisements for gadgets, fascinating things, for cooking, cleaning, washing clothes, furniture and beds … full-page pictures of new models, each one grander and more shiny than the next’.

‘There’s thousands of them’, says the man, ‘and there’s going to be millions’. ‘Joe’s quite a dreamer’, the wife says.

Later, driving the highway, Steinbeck has a conversation with Charley (who frequently fulfils this function):

On the subject of roots. He listened but he didn’t reply. In the pattern-thinking about roots I and most other people have left two things out of consideration. Could it be that Americans are a restless people, a mobile people, never satisfied with where they are as a matter of selection? The pioneers, the immigrants who peopled the continent, were the restless ones in Europe. The steady rooted ones stayed home and are still there. But every one of us, except the Negroes forced here as slaves, are descended from the restless ones, the wayward ones who were not content to stay at home. Wouldn’t it be unusual if we had not inherited this tendency? And the fact is that we have.

There are several such passages in this book – and they are the best thing about it.  I’ve recalled this encounter with the mobile home couple, I think, because shortly after reading it I watched a BBC 4 documentary, American Nomads, in which the British writer Richard Grant, who moved to the USA more than 20 years ago, explored an American nation hidden from view – a nomadic nation, living on the roads, the rails and in the wild open spaces. In its deserts, forests, mountain ranges and on the plains, a huge population of modern nomads pursues its version of the American dream – to live free from the world of careers, mortgages and the white picket fence.  In one dramatic sequence he observed the huge encampments of retired ‘baby boomers’ who have sold up everything to buy, like Steinbeck’s couple, a luxurious mobile home in order to travel the land, free of taxes and responsibilities.

First edition cover

Somewhere in North Dakota, parked well away from the road, Steinbeck admits that, ‘I came with the wish to learn what America is like.  And I wasn’t sure I was learning anything.  I found I was talking aloud to Charley.  He likes the idea but the practice makes him sleepy’.

This just about hits the nail on the head as a description of much of the narrative: Steinbeck’s encounters with people along the way are somewhat limited, especially in the final leg of the journey.  So rather than character-revealing portraits of individuals along the way (such a strength of William Least-Heat Moon’s Blue Highways)  Steinbeck tends to muse aloud on his impressions of America in 1960.  So there, under the sycamores by the stream in North Dakota, Steinbeck mulls over the blandness that has overtaken America – packaged breakfasts that have replaced freshly laid eggs and home-smoked bacon, tasteless sausages, indifferent coffee. He concludes that ‘America has put cleanliness first,  at the expense of taste’.  He has listened to local radio across the country: it, too has been ‘as generalised, as packaged, and as undistinguished as the food’.

‘I am in love with Montana’, writes Steinbeck about discovering a state that seems to him to have resisted the rush to homogenisation.

Here for the first time I heard a definite regional accent unaffected by TV-ese, a slow-paced warm speech.  It seemed to me that the frantic bustle of America was not in Montana. … The calm of the mountains and the rolling grasslands had got into its inhabitants.  … It seemed to me that the towns were places to live in rather than nervous hives.  People had time to pause in their occupations to undertake the passing art of neighbourliness.

Approaching Seattle, Steinbeck senses the nearness of the ocean: ‘The Pacific is my home ocean; I knew it first, grew up on its shore, collected marine animals along the coast’.  But, arriving at the coast, he gets a shock:

I remembered Seattle as a town sitting on hills beside a matchless harbourage – a little city of space and trees and gardens. … It is no longer so.  The tops of hills are shaved off to make level warrens for the rabbits of the present.  The highways eight lanes wide cut like glaciers through the uneasy land. … Everywhere frantic growth, a carcinomatous growth. Bulldozers rolled up the green forests and heaped the resulting trash for burning. The torn white lumber from concrete forms was piled beside grey walls. I wonder why progress looks so much like destruction.

This is Steinbeck astounded and dismayed at the speed with which America is changing. The corner store cannot compete with the supermarket chains and is ‘rapidly disappearing’. Here is a new America of ‘traffic-choked streets, skies nested in smog, choking with the acids of industry, the screech of rubber and houses leashed in against one another while the townlets wither a time and die’.

American cities are like badger holes, ringed with trash – all of them – surrounded by piles of wrecked and rusting automobiles, and almost smothered in rubbish. Everything we use comes in boxes, cartons, bins, the so-called packaging we love so much.The mountains of things we throw away are much greater than the things we use. In this, if in no other way, we can see the wild and reckless exuberance of our production, and waste seems to be the index. […]  This is not offered in criticism but only as observation. And I am sure that, as all pendulums reverse their swing, so eventually will the swollen cities rupture like dehiscent wombs and disperse their children back to the countryside.

The ecologist in Steinbeck is deeply concerned that eventually there must be a saturation point and that progress may be a progression towards strangulation.  Humankind now has the power to ‘eliminate not only itself but all other life’.  The very survival of the planet is at stake:
We have in the past been forced into reluctant change by weather, calamity, and plague. Now the pressure comes from our biological success as a species. We have overcome all enemies but ourselves…. I do wonder whether there will come a time when we can no longer afford our wastefulness – chemical wastes in the rivers, metal wastes everywhere, and atomic wastes buried deep in the earth or sunk in the sea.

But, Steinbeck has very different feelings about the ancient giant redwood trees that he encounters along the Oregon coast:

The redwoods seem to be out of time and out of our ordinary thinking. … once seen, [they] leave a mark or create a vision that stays with you always.  … From them comes silence and awe. … They are ambassadors from another time. … The vainest, most slap-happy and irreverent of men, in the presence of redwoods, goes under a spell of wonder and respect.

Steinbeck spends two days camped near the redwoods,with ‘no trippers, no chattering troupes with cameras’. In a  wonderful, finely written short chapter, he describes the effect that the trees have on him:

There’s a cathedral hush here. Perhaps the thick soft bark absorbs sound and creates a silence. The trees rise straight up to zenith; there is no horizon. The dawn comes early and remains dawn until the sun is high. Then the green fernlike foliage so far up strains the sunlight to a green gold and distributes it in shafts or rather in stripes of light and shade. After the sun passes zenith it is afternoon and quickly evening with a whispering dusk as long as was the morning.

Thus time and the ordinary divisions of the day are changed. To me dawn and dusk are quiet times, and here in the redwoods nearly the whole of daylight is a quiet time. Birds move in the dim light or flash like sparks through the stripes of sun, but they make little sound. Underfoot is a mattress of needles deposited for over two thousand years. No sound of footsteps can be heard on this thick blanket. To me there’s a remote and cloistered feeling here.  One holds back speech   for fear of disturbing something – what?   […]  I have had lifelong association with these things. … I can accept them and their power and their age because I was early exposed to them.  On the other hand, people lacking such experience begin to have a feeling of uneasiness here, of danger, of being shut in, enclosed and overwhelmed. It is not only the size of these redwoods but their strangeness that frightens them. And why not? For these are the  last remaining members of a race that flourished over four continents as far back in geologic time as the upper Jurassic period.  Fossils of’ these ancients have been found dating from the Cretaceous era while in the Eocene and Miocene they were spread over England and Europe and America. And then the glaciers moved down and wiped the Titans out beyond recovery. And only these few are left – a stunning memory of what the world was like once long ago. Can it be that we do not love to be reminded that we are very young and callow in a world that was old when we came into it? And could there be a strong resistance to the certainty that a living world will continue its stately way when we no longer inhabit it?

After returning to his hometown, Salinas in California, highway fatigue seems to set in, and Steinbeck buckets out of California by the shortest possible route:

The journey had been like a dinner of many courses, set before a starving man.  At first he tries to eat all of everything, but as the meal progresses he finds that he must forgo some things to keep his appetite and his taste buds functioning.

The final section of the book deals rather perfunctorily with Texas before a final rush to get back home.  There is, though, one significant passage in which he describes a detour to New Orleans to observe a daily protest against schools desegregation that was gaining widespread coverage in the newspapers. The New Orleans ‘Cheerleaders’ were a group of ‘stout, middle-aged women who, by some curious definition of the word ‘mother’ gathered every day to scream invectives at children’. Steinbeck vividly describes the racist fury unleashed by the women on the black children entering the formerly white-only school.

No newspaper had printed the words these women shouted.  It was indicated that they were indelicate, some even said obscene. … But now I heard the words, bestial and filthy and degenerate.  In a long and unprotected life I have heard the vomitings of demonaic humans before.  Why then did these screams fill me with a shocked and sickened sorrow? […]

Theirs was the demented cruelty of egocentric children, and somehow this made their insensate beastliness much more heartbreaking. These were not mothers, not even women. They were crazy actors playing to a crazy audience.’

This is the moment of Steinbeck’s greatest  disenchantment with America: he senses that its waste, greed, immorality and racism ran deep.

Norman Rockwell’s painting of Ruby Bridges being escorted into school in 1960

A brief digression: this was the same racist protest that inspired Norman Rockwell’s 1963 painting,The Problem We All Live With (above).  Rockwell’s image first gained widespread notice when it was published in Look magazine in January 1964 as an illustration accompanying a feature on how Americans live. He no doubt saw news photos of the event in 1960:

Ruby Bridges leaving school in New Orleans, November 1960 with US marshals

On 15 November 1960, The New York Times reported the greeting Ruby and her mother received as they arrived that day:

Some 150 white, mostly housewives and teenage youths, clustered along the sidewalks across from the William Franz School when pupils marched in at 8:40 am. One youth chanted ‘Two, Four, Six, Eight, we don’t want to integrate’.  As four U.S. marshals arrived with Ruby and her mother, they walked hurriedly up the steps to the school’s entrance as onlookers jeered and shouted taunts. On the sidewalk assembled mothers and school students were yelling at police, some carrying signs, one held by a young boy that said, ‘All I Want For Christmas is a Clean White School’.  Another placard read: ‘Save Segregation, Vote States Rights Pledged Electors’.

The 'Cheerleaders’ protest over school integration, 15 November 1960
November 1960: Integration is A Mortal Sin

After this, Steinbeck heads for home, weary and nauseated.  A sense of loneliness and weariness seeps off the page.  On the last lap, back in his home town, he finds himself lost until a traffic cop helps him out:

‘Officer, I’ve driven this thing all over the country – mountains, plains, deserts. And now I’m back in my own town, where I live – and I’m lost.’

Illustration from Travels with Charley first edition
So what of Charley?  Steinbeck’s ten year old dog serves several functions in the travelogue. He is an ‘ambassador’ who enables the writer to easily establish contact with strangers, and, as noted previously, he often acts as a sounding board for Steinbeck’s ideas.  Charley’s joyful, intuitive behavior is sometimes contrasted with the less pleasant behavior of many human beings. After witnessing the racial taunts of the white segregationists in New Orleans, Steinbeck observes:
But Charley doesn’t have our problems. He doesn’t belong to a species clever enough to split the atom but not clever enough to live in peace with itself. He doesn’t even know about race…He loved deeply and tried dogfully. It would be difficult to explain to a dog the good and moral purpose of a thousand humans gathered to curse one tiny human. I’ve seen a look in dogs’ eyes, a quickly vanishing look of amazed contempt, and I am convinced that basically dogs think humans are nuts.

Like Steinbeck, Charley is an old dog, and problems with his prostrate feature on a couple of occasions on the long odyssey. Most of all, he is a good companion, silent in the passenger seat, happy to listen to Steinbeck’s musings, and pleased, as all dogs are, when the driving ends and he can make his own explorations of the state of America.

There’s been a rather pointless controversy recently about the veracity of some of the encounters and conversations in Travels With Charley following the publication of a series of articles by journalist Bill Steigerwald who, after retracing Steinbecks’s journey in 2010, concluded that Travels With Charley was ‘a fraud’, not just full of fiction, but also a dishonest account of his iconic journey and what he really thought about America.

Jay Parini, author of a Steinbeck biography who also wrote the Introduction for the Penguin edition of Travels With Charley which I’ve been reading, told the New York Times:

I have always assumed that to some degree it’s a work of fiction. Steinbeck was a fiction writer, and here he’s shaping events, massaging them. He probably wasn’t using a tape recorder. But I still feel there’s an authenticity there. Does this shake my faith in the book? Quite the opposite. I would say hooray for Steinbeck. If you want to get at the spirit of something, sometimes it’s important to use the techniques of a fiction writer.

I agree with Justin Sorbara-Hosker who writes on his Non-Fiction blog:

I say it’s missing the point, because it ultimately doesn’t matter.  Reading about Steinbeck, keeping to two-lane blacktop and off the smoggy new interstates, camping and  staying in motels (though Steigerwald disputes this), roaming vanishing natural landscapes with his French poodle – I know there’s some fiction mixed in with his fact.  I don’t really care.  He isn’t fabricating events, and even if he is, do we really believe all autobiographical works are one hundred percent truth? […]  What matters is that Travels with Charley provides an insight into the mind of one of America’s best writers – near the end of his career, struggling with ageing, pondering his career and the changes in the country he loves.

Bill Barich, who wrote Long Way Home: On the Trail of Steinbeck’s America, a retracing of Steinbeck’s footsteps, said:

I’m fairly certain that Steinbeck made up most of the book. The dialogue is so wooden. Steinbeck was extremely depressed, in really bad health, and was discouraged by everyone from making the trip. He was trying to recapture his youth, the spirit of the knight-errant. But at that point he was probably incapable of interviewing ordinary people. He’d become a celebrity and was more interested in talking to Dag Hammarskjold and Adlai Stevenson. The die was probably cast long before he hit the road, and a lot of what he wrote was coloured by the fact that he was so ill. But I still take seriously a lot of what he said about the country. His perceptions were right on the money about the death of localism, the growing homogeneity of America, the trashing of the environment. He was prescient about all that.

Steinbeck himself is tentative about his conclusions, and even distrusts his account:

I feel that there are too many realities. What I set down here is true until someone else passes that way and rearranges the world in his own style.

Weighing up his observations about the American South, he writes:

I’ve only told what a few people said to me and what I saw. I don’t know whether any conclusion can be drawn. But I do know it is a troubled place and a people caught in a jam.

For Steinbeck, it would be pleasant to be able to say of his travels with Charley, ‘I went out to find the truth about my country and I found it’. Instead he feels he only found a ‘barrel of worms’ and that he would be fooling himself if he thought he had anything ‘important or even instructive’ to say about America. The more he considers the question he started out with – ‘What are Americans like today?’ – the less sure he becomes. He has seen so little of the whole that his answer to the question is problematic and can only be considered fragmentary.  What it comes down to, in the end, is just the urge for going:
When I was very young and the urge to be someplace else was on me, I was assured by mature people that maturity would cure this itch. When years described me as mature, the remedy prescribed was middle age. In middle age I was assured that greater age would calm my fever and now that I am fifty-eight perhaps senility will do the job. Nothing has worked. Four hoarse blasts of a ship’s whistle still raise the hair on my neck and set my feet to tapping. The sound of a jet, an engine warming up, even the clopping of shod hooves on pavement brings on the ancient shudder, the dry mouth and vacant eye, the hot palms and the churn of stomach high up under the rib cage. In other words, I don’t improve; in further words, once a bum always a bum. I fear the disease is incurable.
– John Steinbeck, Travels with Charley: In Search of America, opening paragraph

See also

John Steinbeck: sifting the tide pool

In an impassioned assessment of the work of John Steinbeck on BBC 4 last night (John Steinbeck: Voice of America),  Melvyn Bragg recalled reading Steinbeck as a young teenager in Cumbria in the early 1950s.  This revived my own memory of how, after a branch library opened for the first time in the Cheshire village where I grew up, Steinbeck’s novels were among the first that I devoured.  How many of us, in those years, cut our literary teeth on books such as The Grapes of Wrath, Of Mice and Men and Cannery Row? Then, in my first term at grammar school, the very first film shown by the school film society –  searing its politics into my soul alongside Dylan and the civil rights movement – was John Ford’s powerful screen version of The Grapes of Wrath.

At university in the late 1960s, Steinbeck was no longer fashionable, his reputation shot among students on the left by his support for the Vietnam war (a fact of which I was reminded in Bragg’s account).  Moreover, although the Nobel Prize in Literature was awarded to John Steinbeck in 1962 for his ‘realistic and imaginative writings, combining as they do sympathetic humour and keen social perception’, his star had been on the wane, at least among literary critics, for some time. As Melvyn Bragg noted, the Nobel announcement provoked some harsh criticism that amounted to personal attacks, led by Cornell University professor and critic, Arthur Mizener, who wrote a damning piece for the New York Times, ‘Does a Moral Vision of the Thirties Deserve a Nobel Prize?’ from which Bragg quoted: ‘limited talent is, in his best books, watered down by tenth-rate philosophizing’.

Steinbeck didn’t roll with the punches.  In his Nobel speech he responded by attacking critics like Mizener:

Literature was not promulgated by a pale and emasculated critical priesthood singing their litanies in empty churches – nor is it a game for the cloistered elect, the tinhorn mendicants of low calorie despair.  Literature is as old as speech. It grew out of human need for it, and it has not changed except to become more needed. […]

More recently, Robert Gottlieb presented a similar, though more lengthy and reasoned critique of Steinbeck’s output in the New York Review of Books in 2008:

We can see in hindsight that with The Grapes of Wrath, the most significant arc of Steinbeck’s career came to an end—the impassioned reporting of large-scale human tragedy, the Zola-esque attacks on injustice. Indeed, an entire cultural era was coming to an end: the populism that broadly ranged from Waiting for Lefty to early Frank Capra movies and documentaries like The Plow That Broke the Plains. At the close of The Grapes of Wrath, Tom Joad, on the lam, slips away into the dark to join the good fight for The People. A year or two later, with the war upon us, he would have been heading for the nearest draft board.

Gottlieb convincingly explained the connection between the radicalism of The Grapes of Wrath and his support for the Vietnam war thirty years later:

During the Sixties he had become a kind of cultural ambassador for the United States, close to people like Yevgeny Yevtushenko and Dag Hammarsjköld. He had always been less radical than people thought he was—the outrage over injustice and poverty in The Grapes of Wrath and In Dubious Battle was personal, not ideological. He was, in fact, a liberal, middle-of-the-road Democrat—passionate about FDR, an ardent campaigner for Adlai Stevenson, and eventually close to Lyndon Johnson, whom he liked and vigorously supported, particularly on the Vietnam War.

But in his TV special, Melvyn Bragg was determined to make a case for Steinbeck as one of the great voices of American literature, travelling from Oklahoma to California to examine the enduring legacy of Steinbeck and visit some of the places that inspired his writing. (Though, notwithstanding academic critics, Steinbeck doesn’t need rehabilitating – his books still sell by the bucketload).

Salinas, California: Steinbeck's childhood home

Steinbeck was born in the farming town of Salinas, California in 1902 and had a comfortable, middle class upbringing, his father a local businessman. As a child growing up in the fertile Salinas Valley – the ‘Salad Bowl of the Nation’ – Steinbeck formed a deep appreciation of his environment, not only the rich fields and hills surrounding Salinas, but also the nearby Pacific coast where his family spent summer weekends. ‘I remember my childhood names for grasses and secret flowers’, he wrote in the opening chapter of East of Eden, the novel that was part-family history.  ‘I remember where a toad may live and what time the birds awaken in the summer-and what trees and seasons smelled like’.

From 1919 to 1925, when he finally left Stanford University without taking a degree, Steinbeck sometimes worked with migrants and hobos on California ranches. Those relationships, coupled with an early sympathy for the underdog, deepened his empathy for workers, the disenfranchised, the lonely and dislocated, that is characteristic of his work. For a short period Steinbeck worked in construction and as a newspaper reporter in New York City, before returning to California to devote himself to writing.

Bragg’s film was valuable in exploring these local influences on Steinbeck’s work, and in emphasising the ecological ideas that underpinned much of his writing, for example in Cannery Row – something that I, probably in common with many others, certainly missed as a youthful reader.  Bragg explored how the principles of ecology shaped several of Steinbeck’s novels and contributed to his awareness of an essential bond between humans and the environments they inhabit. In a journal entry kept while working on East of Eden, Steinbeck wrote:

The trees and the muscled mountains are the world — but not the world apart from man — the world and man — the one inseparable unit man and his environment. Why they should ever have been understood as being separate I do not know.

His conviction that characters must be seen in the context of their environments remained constant throughout his career. His was not a human-dominated universe, Bragg argued, but an interrelated whole, where species and the environment were seen to interact, where bonds between people, among families, with nature were acknowledged.

Bragg explained how Steinbeck’s holistic vision was determined both by his early years roaming the Salinas hills and by his long and deep friendship with Ed Ricketts, a marine biologist. Founder of Pacific Biological Laboratories, a marine lab housed on Cannery Row in Monterey, Ed was a careful observer of inter-tidal life: ‘I grew to depend on his knowledge and on his patience in research’, Steinbeck wrote in The Log from the Sea of Cortez (1951).  Through his friendship with Ricketts, Steinbeck was drawn to the study of coastal biology. He often went collecting with Ricketts to the Great Tide Pool in Monterey Bay and spent many hours in his friend’s lab preserving specimens. In 1940 he accompanied Ricketts on a specimen-collecting trip to the Gulf of California. The story of their journey and philosophical ruminations  was later published as The Log from the Sea of Cortez.  In a passage from that book, Steinbeck explains the significance of the tide pool metaphor that is central to Cannery Row:

In rubber boots we moved over the flat uncovered by the dropping tide; a silty sand made the water obscure when a rock  or a piece of  coral was turned over.  And as always when one is collecting, we were soon joined by a number of small boys. The very posture of search, the slow movement with the head down, seems to draw people. “What did you lose?” they ask.

“Nothing.”

“Then what do you search for?” And this is an embarrassing question. We search for something that will seem like truth to us; we search for understanding; we search for that principle which keys us deeply into the pattern of all life; we search for the relations of things, one to another, as this young man searches for a warm light in his wife’s eyes and that one for the hot warmth of  fighting. These little boys and young men on the tide flat do not even know that they search for such things too. We say  to them, “We are looking for curios, for certain small animals.”

Then the little boys help us to search….

Once they know you are generally curious, they bring amazing things. Perhaps we only practice an extension of  their urge. It is easy  to remember when we were small and lay on our stomachs beside a tide pool and our minds and eyes went so deeply  into it that size and identity  were lost, and the creeping hermit crab was our size and the tiny octopus a monster. Then the waving algae covered us and we hid under a rock at the bottom and leaped out at fish. It is very  possible that we, and even those who probe space with equations, simply  extend this wonder.

This was valuable: what I, and no doubt very many other readers have taken from reading novels such as The Grapes of Wrath, Of Mice and Men and Cannery Row is something else: how Steinbeck gave voice to ordinary people who were battling poverty, drought and homelessness. Bragg explored this too, travelling Route 66 from the midwest to the Pacific coast, visiting the site of the 1930s dust bowl in Oklahoma, as well as the destination of the desperate Okies – the California orchards where bloody political battles were fought between the migrant labourers and the owners.

Tom Collins with a drought refugee and her sons at a Migrants Camp. Photograph by Dorothea Lange

Bragg revealed how The Grapes of Wrath, like many of Steinbeck’s novels, was informed in part by careful documentary observation, with Steinbeck spending time with migrants learning about conditions in the labour camps where they lived.  It turns out that Weedpatch Camp in the novel actually existed, and still does today – used by migrant workers, now primarily Mexicans. Bragg visited the camp and spoke to a local historian who explained the background to the book’s dedication: ‘To Tom, who lived it’.

In 1936, The San Francisco News hired Steinbeck to write a series of articles on the Dust Bowl migration. The seven article series, The Harvest Gypsies, provided the factual basis for The Grapes of Wrath. Steinbeck began his research with an escorted two week tour of California’s Central Valley visiting farms, labour camps, ‘Hoovervilles’, and shantytowns. One camp he visited was the Arvin Sanitary Camp—Weedpatch, built in 1935 by the Federal Government’s New Deal Farm Security Administration (FSA). In contrast to the squalid labour camps set up by the orchard owners, Weedpatch was clean, well-run, and boasted facilities such as a community hall and library.  Here Steinbeck met Tom Collins, the manager of the camp. Collins became the most important single source for The Grapes of Wrath, travelling with Steinbeck on three trips around California observing camp operations, talking to residents, and attending meetings.

Weedpatch camp today

Another aspect of the book that Melvyn Bragg discussed was Steinbeck’s utilisation of biblical patterns (the Exodus, the Promised Land) and language to give the story its mythic character.  He told how Steinbeck insisted that the words of the Battle Hymn of the Republic should be printed on the endpapers of the first edition:

In the souls of the people the grapes of wrath are filling and growing heavy, growing heavy for the vintage.
The Grapes of Wrath, Chapter 25

Bragg told, too, of how, as well as being lauded by critics nationwide for its power and truth, The Grapes of Wrath also attracted a ferocious response. An Oklahoma congressman called it a ‘dirty, lying, filthy manuscript’. California politicians claimed the novel was a scourge on the state’s reputation, and in counties where the migrant population was burgeoning, the book was banned for many years. In some places, the book was burned.

Bragg didn’t have to labour any point about the book’s renewed relevance when he read extracts such as these:

The bankers … breathe profits; they eat the interest on money. If they don’t get it, they die the way you die without air, without side-meat.
The Grapes of Wrath, Chapter 5

The bank is something more than men, I tell you. It’s the monster. Men made it, but they can’t control it.
The Grapes of Wrath, Chapter 5

Is a tractor bad? Is the power that turns the long furrows wrong? If this tractor were ours, it would be good – not mine, but ours. We could love that tractor then as we have loved this land when it was ours. But this tractor does two things – it turns the land and turns us off the land. There is little difference between this tractor and a tank. The people were driven, intimidated, hurt by both. We must think about this.
The Grapes of Wrath, Chapter 14

And the great owners, who must lose their land in an upheaval, the great owners with access to history, with eyes to read history and to know the great fact: when property accumulates in too few hands it is taken away. And that companion fact: when a majority of the people are hungry and cold they will take by force what they need. And the little screaming fact that sounds through all history: repression works only to strengthen and knit the repressed.
The Grapes of Wrath, Chapter 19

Whenever there’s a fight so hungry people can eat, I’ll be there. Whenever there’s a cop beatin’ up a guy, I’ll be there… I’ll be in the way guys yell when they’re mad an’ I’ll be in the way kids laugh when they’re hungry an’ they know supper’s ready. An’ when our folks eat the stuff they raise an’ live in the houses they build – why, I’ll be there.
The Grapes of Wrath, Chapter 28

After working as a war correspondent in the Second World War, Steinbeck returning to California where he wrote his nostalgic account of his days on Cannery Row with Ed Ricketts. Cannery Row (1945) hasn’t got much of a plot, but is rather an attempt to capture the feeling of a place and its people, the cannery district of Monterey, California, populated by a mix of those down on their luck and those who choose for other reasons not to live ‘up the hill’ in the more respectable area of town. The novel centres on Doc, a marine biologist based on the real-life Ed Ricketts who worked at Pacific Biological Laboratory, 800 Cannery Row.

Pacific Biological Laboratory, 800 Cannery Row, Monterey, in 1946

Early morning is the time of magic in Cannery Row. In the grey time after the light has come and before the sun has risen, the Row seems to hang suspended in time in a silvery light. It is the hour of the pearl – the interval between day and night when time stops and examines itself.

Cannery Row in Monterey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream. Cannery Row is the gathered and scattered, tin and iron and rust and splintered wood, chipped pavement and weedy lots and junk heaps, sardine canneries of corrugated iron, honky tonks, restaurants and whore houses, and little crowded groceries, and laboratories and flophouses. … How can the poem and the stink and the grating noise—the quality of light, the tone, the habit and the dream-be set down alive? When you collect marine animals there are certain 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 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 let the stores crawl in by themselves.

It has always seemed strange to me…The things we admire in men, kindness and generosity, openness, honesty, understanding and feeling, are the concomitants of failure in our system. And those traits we detest, sharpness, greed, acquisitiveness, meanness, egotism and self-interest, are the traits of success. And while men admire the quality of the first they love the produce of the second.
– Cannery Row

Cannery Row, 1930s
Cannery Row, Monterey today

Bragg concluded by talking about Steinbeck ‘s ambivalence towards the United States, to whose landscape and people he felt inexorably drawn, but whose slide into commercialism and corporatism he lamented, especially in one of his last books, Travels with Charley in Search of America (1962). In 1960, he toured America in a camper truck, and on his return published the highly praised Travels with Charley that both celebrates American individuals and decries American hypocrisy. There was powerful writing here, which Melvyn Bragg read out:

American cities are like badger holes, ringed with trash – all of them – surrounded by piles of wrecked and rusting automobiles, and almost smothered in rubbish. Everything we use comes in boxes, cartons, bins, the so-called packaging we love so much.The mountains of things we throw away are much greater than the things we use. In this, if in no other way, we can see the wild and reckless exuberance of our production, and waste seems to be the index. […]  The new American finds his challenge and his love in the traffic-choked streets, skies nested in smog, choking with the acids of industry, the screech of rubber and houses leashed in against one another while the townlets wither a time and die. This is not offered in criticism but only as observation. And I am sure that, as all pendulums reverse their swing, so eventually will the swollen cities rupture like dehiscent wombs and disperse their children back to the countryside. […]

The climax of his journey is his visit to the New Orleans ‘cheerleaders’ who daily taunted black children newly registered in white schools. His disenchantment with American waste, greed, immorality and racism ran deep. His last published book, America and Americans (1966), decried the seemingly crumbling morality of the American people.

Overall, what I gained from Bragg’s survey was a new understanding of the ecological concepts that underpinned much of Steinbeck’s work – and a desire to re-read those novels I read back in my early teens, as well as those, such as Travels with Charley and The Log from the Sea of Cortez that I have never read.

We have usurped many of the powers we once ascribed to God. Fearful and unprepared, we have assumed lordship over the life or death of the whole world – of all living things. … Man himself has become our greatest hazard and our only hope.
– John Steinbeck, Nobel award speech

The Grapes of Wrath and Route 66

The Guardian has, this last few days, been running a series The Grapes of Wrath Revisited, a journey along the old Route 66 – following in the footsteps of the Joads, the central characters in John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath who fled the Oklahoma dustbowl for California – to see whether the tragedy and despair witnessed in the Great Depression is a long-forgotten nightmare or a present-day reality still haunting Barack Obama’s America.

Four classic images from Dorothea Lange are a reminder of the circumstances that inspired Steinbeck’s novel:

The first article in the series began:

Seven decades later, the machine grinds on. It remains as faceless as back in the 1930s when John Steinbeck described the banks which forced Oklahoma’s destitute subsistence farmers from their land as institutions made by men but beyond their control.

“The banks were machines and masters all at the same time,” explains one of the land owners come to evict tenant farmers in the Grapes of Wrath. “The bank — the monster has to have profits all the time. It can’t stay one size… When the monster stops growing, it dies.”

The evictions set the fictional Joad family on a trek west to California that was the real experience of hundreds of thousands of Americans escaping drought and the towering clouds of soil carried on the wind across the midwestern dust bowl and from the mass unemployment of the great depression in northern cities. The road they flooded, Route 66 from Chicago to Los Angeles, later became a symbol of prosperity and the new found freedoms of the rock’n’roll era. But in the 1930s it played host to years of misery as destitute families, some on the brink of starvation, struggled along in search of work.

Then the poor looked to President Franklin Roosevelt as a shield from the excesses of capitalism and his New Deal to alleviate the worst hardship. Today, from Oklahoma to California, there is suspicion and outright hostility with even some of those who arguably have most to gain from liberal policies and social programmes speaking of all government as if it is the enemy.

The Joads began their journey just outside the small Oklahoma town of Sallisaw. Richard Mayo was 10 years old when Henry Fonda and the cast arrived in 1939 to make the film of the book. He said the townspeople resented the Grapes of Wrath for making Oklahomans appear ill-educated and backward.

“There was a lot of anger at the book, anger toward John Steinbeck: that’s not us, that’s not the way we are. I don’t think the anger subsided until the sixties. But there was a truth to the book”.

Each episode of the series has featured photo galleries (from which the images on this page are taken) and telling extracts from The Grapes of Wrath:

Highway 66 is the main migrant road. 66—the long concrete path across the country, waving gently up and down on the map, from Mississippi to Bakersfield—over the red lands and the gray lands, twisting up into the mountains, crossing the Divide and down into the bright and terrible desert, and across the desert to the mountains again, and into the rich California valleys.

66 is the path of a people in flight, refugees from dust and shrinking land, from the thunder of tractors and shrinking ownership, from the desert’s slow northward invasion, from the twisting winds that howl up out of  Texas, from the floods that bring no richness to the kind and steel what little richness is there. From all of these the people are in flight, and they come into 66 from the tributary side roads, from the wagon tracks and the rutted country roads. 66 is the mother road, the road of flight…

The owners of the land came onto the land, or more often a spokesman for the owners came. They came in closed cars, and they felt the dry earth with their fingers and sometimes they drove big earth augers into the ground for soil tests. The tenants, from their sun-beaten dooryards, watched uneasily when the closed cars drove along the fields. And at last the owner men drove into the dooryards and sat in their cars to talk out of the windows. The tenant men stood beside the cars for a while, and then squatted on their hams and found sticks with which to mark the dust.

In the open doors the women stood looking out, and behind them the children—corn-headed children, with wide eyes, one bare foot on top of the other bare foot, and the toes working. The women and the children watched their men talking to the owner men. They were silent.

Some of the owner men were kind because they hated what they had to do. and some of them were angry because they hated to be cruel, and some of them were cold because they had long ago found that one could not be an owner unless one were cold. And all of them were caught in something larger than themselves…

The cars of the migrant people crawled out of the side roads onto the great cross-country highway, and then took the migrant way to the West. In the daylight they scuttled like bugs to the westward; and as the dark caught them, they clustered like bugs near to shelter and to water.

And because they were lonely and perplexed, because they had all come from a place of sadness and worry and defeat, and because they were all going to a new mysterious place, they huddled together; they talked together; they shared their lives, their food, and the things they hoped for in the new country. Thus it might be that one family camped near a spring, and another camped for the spring and for company, and a third because two families had pioneered the place and found it good. And when the sun went down, perhaps twenty families and twenty cars were there.

In the evening a strange thing happened: the twenty families became one family, the children were the children of all. The loss of home became one loss, and the golden time in the West was one dream...

And it came about that owners no longer worked on their farms. They farmed on paper; and they forgot the land, the smell, the feel of it, and remembered only that they owned it, remembered only what they gained and lost by it. And some of the farms grew so large that man could not even conceive of them any more, so large that it took batteries of book-keepers to keep track of interest and gain and loss; chemists to test the soil, to replenish; straw bosses to see that the stooping men were moving along the rows as swiftly as the material of their bodies could stand. Then such a farmer really became a storekeeper, and kept a store. He paid the men, and sold them food, and took the money back. And after a while he did not pay the men at all, and saved bookkeeping. These farms gave food on credit. A man might work and feed himself; and when the work was done, he might find that he owed money to the company.  And the owners not only did not work the farms any more, many of them had never seen the farms they owned.

And then the dispossessed were drawn west—from Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico; from Nevada and Arkansas families, tribes, dusted out, tractored out. Carloads, caravans, homeless and hungry, twenty thousand and fifty thousand and a hundred thousand and two hundred thousand. They streamed over the mountains, hungry and restless – restless as ants, scurrying to find work to do – to lift, to push to pull, to pick, to cut – anything, any burden to bear, for food. The kids are hungry. We got no place to live. Like ants scurrying for work, for food and most of all for land…

There is a crime here that goes beyond denunciation. There is a sorrow here that weeping cannot symbolize. There is a failure here that topples all our success.  The fertile earth, the straight tree rows, the sturdy trunks, and the ripe fruit. And children dying of pellagra must die because a profit cannot be taken from an orange. And coroners must fill in the certificates – died of malnutrition – because the food must rot, must be forced to rot.
The people come with nets to fish for potatoes in the river, and the guards hold them back; they come in rattling cars to get the dumped oranges, but the kerosene is sprayed. And they stand still and watch the potatoes float by, listen to the screaming pigs being killed in a ditch and covered with quicklime, watch the mountains of oranges slop down to a putrefying ooze; and in the eyes of the people there is the failure; and in the eyes of the hungry there is a growing wrath. In the souls of the people the grapes of wrath are filling and growing heavy, growing heavy for the vintage…

And the great owners, who must lose their land in an upheaval, the great owners with access to history, with eyes to read history and to know the great fact: when property accumulates in too few hands it is taken away. And that companion fact: when a majority of the people are hungry and cold they will take by force what they need. And the little screaming fact that sounds through all history: repression works only to strengthen and knit the repressed…

The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck was published in April 1939. The book and the film must, I think, have had a big impact on the development of my political outlook in my early teens. When it was published, Steinbeck’s novel had an enormous impact – it was widely read, debated and denounced by right-wing and business groups as communist propaganda. In 1962, the Nobel Prize committee cited The Grapes of Wrath as a ‘great work’ and as one of the key reasons for awarding Steinbeck the Nobel Prize for Literature.

The film version, starring Henry Fonda, was directed by John Ford in 1940. In the same year, Woody Guthrie composed his ballad, Tom Joad, which told the whole story in one song. In 1995, Bruce Springsteen’s The Ghost of Tom Joad incorporated lines from Tom Joad’s famous speech:

I’ll be all around in the dark. I’ll be everywhere, wherever you can look. Wherever there’s a fight so hungry people can eat, I’ll be there. Wherever there’s a cop beatin’ up a guy, I’ll be there. I’ll be in the way guys yell when they’re mad. I’ll be in the way kids laugh when they’re hungry and they know supper’s ready and where people are eatin’ the stuff they raise and livin’ in the houses they build. I’ll be there, too.

NY Times Critics’ Picks: The Grapes of Wrath

Bruce Springsteen: The Ghost of Tom Joad

Men walkin’ ‘long the railroad tracks
Goin’ someplace there’s no goin’ back
Highway patrol choppers comin’ up over the ridge
Hot soup on a campfire under the bridge
Shelter line stretchin’ round the corner
Welcome to the new world order
Families sleepin’ in their cars in the southwest
No home no job no peace no rest

The highway is alive tonight
But nobody’s kiddin’ nobody about where it goes
I’m sittin’ down here in the campfire light
Searchin’ for the ghost of Tom Joad

He pulls prayer book out of his sleeping bag
Preacher lights up a butt and takes a drag
Waitin’ for when the last shall be first and the first shall be last
In a cardboard box ‘neath the underpass
Got a one-way ticket to the promised land
You got a hole in your belly and gun in your hand
Sleeping on a pillow of solid rock
Bathin’ in the city aqueduct

The highway is alive tonight
But where it’s headed everybody knows
I’m sittin’ down here in the campfire light
Waitin’ on the ghost of Tom Joad

Now Tom said “Mom, wherever there’s a cop beatin’ a guy
Wherever a hungry newborn baby cries
Where there’s a fight ‘gainst the blood and hatred in the air
Look for me Mom I’ll be there
Wherever there’s somebody fightin’ for a place to stand
Or decent job or a helpin’ hand
Wherever somebody’s strugglin’ to be free
Look in their eyes Mom you’ll see me.

Woody Guthrie: Tom Joad