Of all the books I read in my adolescence, from The Great Gatsby to The Catcher in the Rye, books assigned in English classes (The Mayor of Casterbridge), books I read for fun (Don Quixoite) and edification (The Consolation of Philosophy), I still believe John Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath has been the most important.
Like a song that not only stirs us but revives memories in us of a time when we first tuned in, a great book is both a tome within itself and within us. There is something of a bridge between the words on the page and how they resonate inside us. The philosopher Plato looked down upon artists because they chose to imitate what he considered an imitation. A painter paints a table when the table, in Plato's argument is only a copy of the great eternal idea of a 'table'.
For me, a great writer is able to create an entire world and the fortunate reader, an opportunity to explore it and become in some way lost in the images, amused and entertained by the scenes, befriended by the characters and moved by the varying moods. The work of art, especially a book is not truly an imitation but a reality, a realm unto itself, a place that changes though the print never truly changes, the story never changes. There is a kind of mystical relationship between the reader and the words written. It is a timeless world that unfolds in time and does so eternally. The words remain but the reader encounters a variation of the same due to his or her experience with the book.
Steinbeck's world is such a place that ones feels at home. Once the book begins, there is no turning back and though some chapters are difficult, it is a journey that doesn't let go until you find yourself at the end.
For those that haven't read The Grapes of Wrath it's more than just a novel about the Joads. Though the backdrop is the Depression, the places, Oklahoma and California and the roads in between, the real focus is survival along with the need for human support and co-operation, ideals and dreams that are achievable and in reach but often thwarted and obstructed by the greedy, the arrogant and ignorant (for isn't greed a form of blindness). Though there is no good and evil, no black and white in the story, merely a struggle between viewpoints, the conflict between the haves and have-nots is upfront and personal.
To begin, the Joads, like many farmers of the 1930s Dust Bowl drought years lose their farm and in order to make ends meet, drive out to California in search of work. Along the way they are challenged and though the family is little by little torn apart, a greater picture arises, a greater bond becomes recognized. Though people like the Joads are abused by the cops who act as bullies for the well-to-do, they are never broken.
It is a perennial story of survival and hope. The ending differs from the film adaptation and perhaps it is the most haunting in literature.
To read such a work has brought back memories of my teen years, the time when I first discovered Bob Dylan's early folk music and the music of Dylan's main influence, Woody Guthrie.
While reading the novel, I seemed to recall the strikes my father attended at General Motors in St.Catharines.
I also remembered the effect the novel had on me then, the longing to live in a world where families worked hard to stay together. Though I knew my parent's separation was inevitable, I admired Ma Joad's tenacity, her fierce will to stay strong in the face of adversity and loss.
I also looked upon Tom Joad, the pivotal protagonist as not only an icon of hope and justice, but of courage and endurance. For me, high school was hell but there had been other hells out there and Tom was the kind of man I would have wanted to be my best friend, my wing man in a fight or conflict or bad corner.
There was also something to having a brother like Al or younger siblings like Ruthie and Winfield. The Joads are never alone and when I first read the book, it was difficult coming to the end when I knew it would be the end of their kinship. Even tonight, after reading the last page for the second time, it is like closing the door on a crowd of kind, but sturdy companions.
There should be a word to describe the melancholy people feel when a good book comes to an end, when the reader must resentfully place the book back on the shelf after there are no more page to embrace and devour. It is a mournful waking moment and only with beautiful works of literature do I encounter such sombre moods. I can't just jump into another book because the aura of the just read masterpiece is too overwhelming. And the aura, I know, often lingers to the point that other novels will routinely feel pale in the great work's wake.
I felt the same after my first reading. It is harder even now. I'll probably be a wreck should I return to the book in the years to come.
The thing that stays with me the most is how timely and timeless the scenes of the book played out, especially when the Joads and the other characters in the novel had to deal with cops. The law enforcement of those times and places were bullies then, they are bullies now. I've kept abreast of the Occupy Movement through Democracy Now and it saddens me to think that so little has changed and yet so much. I think about my recent dealing with a Niagara winery, their mistreatment of employees and if it wasn't for books like The Grapes of Wrath, for human rights and labour relations groups, I wouldn't have received a settlement. I can say John Steinbeck has had a great influence on my life in both his writing and the awareness he spread, rippling through the decades.
Such novelists leave deep impacts in our lives when we let them. All it takes is a simple motion of the eyes and some understanding, some basic literacy and we're on our way to dreaming and feeling something beyond ourselves. The trouble is the confusion we encounter when the books end. What do we do with our learning, who do we talk with? I've always been a loner and there are so few people I can speak to that share similar interests. The Internet is one place but I don't really feel connected to people, not with a blog or with messages on Facebook. Our digital age has tried to recreate a pale version of human interaction. Social media is far from truly being social. I much prefer the company of the Joads, their faces in the firelight, the distant sound of harmonica, the smell of bacon and the soulful eyes of Tom and his preacher friend Casey discussing God, the world and humanity.
I know I can go back to them.
