Steinbeck (23 page)

 

Now—about all the other books being practice. It isn't true. I've been working three years on this book. In a sense, everything one does is practice for something else. But Pat, let this book ride or fall on its own story. I think the subject is large enough to get by. Actually if there has been one rigid rule in my books, it is that I as me had no right in them. And if that is so of the text, let it be so of the publicity. You really don't need me in it. If you do—then the book is a failure.

I'm getting along pretty well. Should be let up in a week or so. It was a surprise to me when I went down. Haven't been sick since I was sixteen.

I think I wrote everything else in the other letter.

love to you and
Dorothy and Paco
John

Los Gatos
January 16, 1939

Dear Pat:

I have your letter today. And I am sorry but I cannot change that ending. It is casual—there is no fruity climax, it is not more important than any other part of the book—if there is a symbol, it is a survival symbol not a love symbol, it must be an accident, it must be a stranger, and it must be quick. To build this stranger into the structure of the book would be to warp the whole meaning of the book. The fact that the Joads don't know him, don't care about him, have no ties to him—that is the emphasis. The giving of the breast has no more sentiment than the giving of a piece of bread. I'm sorry if that doesn't get over. It will maybe. I've been on this design and balance for a long time and I think I know how I want it. And if I'm wrong, I'm alone in my wrongness. As for the Maupassant story, I've never read it but I can't see that it makes much difference. There are no new stories and I wouldn't like them if there were. The incident of the earth mother feeding by the breast is older than literature. You know that I have never been touchy about changes, but I have too many thousands of hours on this book, every incident has been too carefully chosen and its weight judged and fitted. The balance is there. One other thing—I am not writing a satisfying story. I've done my damndest to rip a reader's nerves to rags, I don't want him satisfied.

And still one more thing—I tried to write this book the way lives are being lived not the way books are written.

This letter sounds angry. I don't mean it to be. I know that books lead to a strong deep climax. This one doesn't except by implication and the reader must bring the implication to it. If he doesn't, it wasn't a book for him to read. Throughout I've tried to make the reader participate in the actuality, what he takes from it will be scaled entirely on his own depth or hollowness. There are five layers in this book, a reader will find as many as he can and he won't find more than he has in himself.

I seem to be getting well slowly. The pain is going away. Nerves still pretty tattered but rest will stop that before too long. I fret pretty much at having to stay in bed. Guess I was pretty close to a collapse when I finally went to bed. I feel the result of it now.

Love to you all,
John

[Los Gatos]
January [20] 1939

Dear All:

Actually I've been in bed two weeks and the pain getting worse instead of better. This afternoon I went to an osteopath. I have always thought them little better than witch doctors. He said a vertebra was out, flipped it, and the pain went away instantly. I'm holding my breath but that's six hours ago and it isn't back yet. I'll go to him again tomorrow. Pray for me. That pain was getting me nuts.

Mavis's letter came today with check [royalty from
Of Mice and Men
on tour]. I was surprised to hear the show was in Philadelphia. Wonder if they are ever coming out here. After the fair opens there will be thousands of stray visitors in S.F. And the coast would welcome that play I'm pretty sure. The check was lots larger this week too.

I feel so good tonight I could yell. It's the first time without pain in six weeks and I'll have the first good sleep in that time tonight.

Carol is planting things and I, big slug, just look on. We put 27 goldfish in the new pool today.

Guess that's all. I wonder if you could get any kind of itinerary from the Sam Harris office. Maybe they haven't one.

Love to you all,
John

Los Gatos
January 31, 1939

Dear Mrs. Vanamee:

I am grateful for the honor of having been elected to membership in the National Institute of Arts and Letters. Please convey my thanks to the committee.

Sincerely
John Steinbeck

[Los Gatos]
[Received
February 33, 1939]

Dear Pat:

I keep having to say no all the time and I hate it. It's about the manuscript this time. You see I feel that this is Carol's book so I gave her the manuscript. For myself I don't like anything personal to intrude on this or any other book but this one in particular. I think a book should be itself, complete and in print. What went into the writing of it is no business of the reader. I disapprove of having my crabbed hand exposed. The fact that my writing is small may be a marvel but it is also completely unimportant to the book. No, I want this book to be itself with no history and no writer.

Carol has other reasons for not wanting it ever known that the ms exists. Those people who beg things for Spain are after us a good deal. And Carol doesn't want to give this ms away and she knows the campaign will start if any attention is drawn to the script. And of course it is hers.

I'm sorry Pat, but do you really think we've lost a single reader by refusing to do the usual things? By not speaking at luncheons do you think I've lost sales? I don't. And if it were true I'd rather lose that kind of readers. Let's just keep the whole personal emphasis out. It can be done. I haven't been to a tea or a dinner in my life and I'm quite sure no one minds, people forget. Let's have no personality at all. I think the book has enough of its own to carry it. I hope you don't mind too much. love to Dorothy and to Paco John

[Los Gatos]
[Received March 31, 1939]

Dear Pat:

The books came today [advance copies of
The Grapes of Wrath
] and I am immensely pleased with them. It is a good job. But what with family and relatives I'll have to have about five more copies. Will you send them please and bill me? I really need them to prevent hurt feelings.

I think the way you laid in the Hymn on the end papers is swell. The pageage is less than you contemplated, isn't it? And I'm glad. 850 pages is a frightening length. You know I would like to see the New York reviews. Would you please save them for me? I understand Joe Jackson is going to do it for the Herald Tribune. I'm glad of that. I guess that is all. I just wanted to tell you how much I like the book.

John

Los Gatos
[June 7, 1939]

Dear Carl:

Of course I'd like to see you. The ranch is wonderful now and I resent any time spent away from it. Cherries are just getting ripe and the vegetable garden is finally supplying food and we make our own butter and cheese and have lots of milk to drink. I bought a cow and a neighbor takes care of it delivering to us three quarts a day which gives us all the cream and butter we can use. It's really pretty fine. And the cow just eats pasturage that would go to waste if she weren't there.

I did a silly thing yesterday, coughed hard and wrenched my back. Down in Salinas there was a man who sneezed and broke his right arm. Everyone laughed to beat hell but his arm was broken just the same. And I get no sympathy about this back either.

I'm glad you like this last book. It was a terrible amount of work. Never worked so hard in my life nor so long before. And I found something I didn't know about and that is exhaustion. I never thought I could get that way. But I found I could.

Our Toby Dog got to thinking too much and one day he just walked away and never came back. The Thoreau of the dog world, I guess. Now we have another dog. A big Dobermann who doesn't think much at all and is much happier for it. Also, having short hair, he doesn't get ticks and burrs.

Yes, please do come down but remember about calling because I would hate to miss you.

affectionately,
john

Los Gatos
[June 1939]

Dear Mr. Pearce:

I'm awfully glad of your letter and I wish I could accept your invitation. But I'm working at a job that doesn't let me stay still long enough to accept anything. Thanks just the same. One of the reasons I would like to accept is that I would like to be in the Press Club and not be thrown out. The only time I ever was there I was thrown out. Happened this way. Dick Oliver and I were in shiny evening clothes and no money and no parties and he said he was a member of the Press Club and we could go sit there until our bus left. It was 2:30 A. M. then. And I thanked him and it was raining. So we went in and it was nice and a fire was burning as I remember. But the attendant didn't remember Dick and couldn't find his name on the list of members. He insisted that we go out again and meant it. So we went out. And as you probably know if you've ever been put out of a place, you feel a kind of unpleasant feeling about it and I'd like some time to sit by your fire with that fine feeling that no one was going to toss me out. All this was years ago but Jesus, it was a wet night.

Again thanks for your invitation. I wish I could go.

Sincerely,
John Steinbeck

Los Gatos
June 22, 1939

Dear Elizabeth:

This whole thing is getting me down and I don't know what to do about it. The telephone never stops ringing, telegrams all the time, fifty to seventy-five letters a day all wanting something. People who won't take no for an answer sending books to be signed. I don't know what to do. Would you mind phoning Viking and telling them not to forward any more letters but to send them to your office? I'll willingly pay for the work to be done but even to handle a part of the letters now would take a full time secretary and I will not get one if it is the last thing I do. Something has to be worked out or I am finished writing. I went south to work and I came back to find Carol just about hysterical. She had just been pushed beyond endurance. There is one possibility and that is that I go out of the country. I thought this thing would die down but it is only getting worse day by day.