America and Americans and Selected Nonfiction

by John Steinbeck

  We expect Negroes to be good-tempered and self-controlled under all circumstances.

  But our greatest expectation is that they will be honest, honorable, and decent. This is the most profound compliment we can pay any man or group. And the proof of this shows in our outrage when a Negro does not live up to the picture we ordinarily have of him.

  With thousands of burglaries, muggings, embezzlements reported every day, we are upset when a Negro is found doing what so many whites do regularly.

  In New York, with its daily reports of public thefts, deceits, and assorted political and fiscal raids on public money and treason against public trust, one Negro who succumbs to the temptation to do what many white people do fills us with dismay and the papers are full of it. What greater compliment can we pay to a people?

  Finally, let me bring it down to cases.

  I have children, as many of you whites who read this have. Do you think your children would have the guts, the dignity, and the responsibility to go to school in Little Rock knowing they would be insulted, shoved, hated, sneered at, even spat upon day after day, and do it quietly without showing anger, petulance, or complaint? And even if they could take it, would they also get good grades?

  Now I am a grown, fairly well-educated—I hope intelligent—white man. I know that violence can produce no good effect of any kind. And yet if my child were spat on and insulted, I couldn’t trust myself not to get a ball bat and knock out a few brains. But I trust Negroes not to, and they haven’t.

  I think so much of those school children in Little Rock—a small handful who carry the will and conscience, the hopes and futures of millions in their arms. They have not let their people down. I think, what quiet pride their grandchildren can have in them knowing they came of such stock.

  And then I think of the faces of the mob that tried to keep them out, faces drooling hatred, cursing and accursed faces, brave only in numbers, spitting their venom at children. And some of those faces, masked, sneaking in the night to plant a bomb—the final weapon of a coward.

  What pride can their descendants take in their ancestry? But of course they will forget, or lie, or both.

  When Martin Luther King was stabbed by a hysterical woman, he might well have felt some anger or hurt or despair. But his first words on coming out of the anesthetic were: “Don’t let them hurt her. She needs help.”

  Perhaps some of the anger against Negroes stems from a profound sense of their superiority, and perhaps their superiority is rooted in having a cause and an unanswerable method composed of courage, restraint, and a sense of direction.

  Dear Adlai

  Dear Adlai:

  BACK FROM CAMELOT, and, reading the papers, not at all sure it was wise. Two first impressions. First, a creeping, all pervading, nerve-gas of immorality which starts in the nursery and does not stop before it reaches the highest offices both corporate and governmental. Two, a nervous restlessness, a hunger, a thirst, a yearning for something unknown—perhaps morality. Then there’s the violence, cruelty and hypocrisy symptomatic of a people which has too much, and last, the surly ill temper which only shows up in humans when they are frightened.

  Adlai, do you remember two kinds of Christmases? There is one kind in a house where there is little and a present represents not only love but sacrifice. The one single package is opened with a kind of slow wonder, almost reverence. Once I gave my youngest boy, who loves all living things, a dwarf, peach-faced parrot for Christmas. He removed the paper and then retreated a little shyly and looked at the little bird for a long time. And finally he said in a whisper, “Now who would have ever thought that I would have a peach-faced parrot?” Then there is the other kind of Christmas with presents piled high, the gifts of guilty parents as bribes because they have nothing else to give. The wrappings are ripped off and the presents thrown down and at the end the child says—“Is that all?” Well, it seems to me that America now is like that second kind of Christmas. Having too many THINGS they spend their hours and money on the couch searching for a soul. A strange species we are. We can stand anything God and nature can throw at us save only plenty. . . . If I wanted to destroy a nation, I would give it too much and I would have it on its knees, miserable, greedy and sick. . . . And then I think of our “Daily” in Somerset, who served your lunch. She made a teddy bear with her own hands for our grandchild. Made it out of an old bath towel dyed brown and it is beautiful. She said, “Sometimes when I have a bit of rabbit fur, they come out lovelier.” Now there is a present. And that obviously male teddy bear is going to be called for all time MIZ Hicks.

  When I left Bruton, I checked out with Officer ’Arris, the lone policeman who kept the peace in five villages, unarmed and on a bicycle. He had been very kind to us and I took him a bottle of Bourbon whisky. But I felt it necessary to say—“It’s a touch of Christmas cheer, officer, and you can’t consider it a bribe because I don’t want anything and I am going away. . . .” He blushed and said, “Thank you, sir, but there was no need.” To which I replied—“If there had been, I would not have brought it.”

  Mainly, Adlai, I am troubled by the cynical immorality of my country. I do not think it can survive on this basis and unless some kind of catastrophe strikes us, we are lost. But by our very attitudes we are drawing catastrophe to ourselves. What we have beaten in nature, we cannot conquer in ourselves.

  Someone has to reinspect our system and that soon. We can’t expect to raise our children to be good and honorable men when the city, the state, the government, the corporations all offer higher rewards for chicanery and deceit than probity and truth. On all levels it is rigged, Adlai. Maybe nothing can be done about it, but I am stupid enough and naively hopeful enough to want to try. How about you?

  Yours,

  John

  G.O.P. Delegates Have Bigger, Better Badges

  SAN FRANCISCO, AUG. 20—Here we go again.

  The cows are out and the delegates in. San Francisco streets are crawling. Chinatown hasn’t been so lively since the tong wars.

  A great many relatives are going to get “genuine Chinese kimonos,” made in the New York garment district.

  The Republicans have much better and bigger badges than the Democrats. In Chicago, I had a little old plastic card to pin to my lapel.

  Here in San Francisco they have given me a glorious bronze medal on a white ribbon, a combination of sharpshooter’s medal and the Order of the Golden Fleece. I may wear this permanently and pass it on to my children.

  So far, no trouble. The G.O.P. public-relations people have treated me royally. I don’t have to bum a floor pass from television.

  This convention is on wheels—as controlled and pretty as a spectacular. The best entertainers are performing here at the Cow Palace.

  The script is written and the lines have been learned. The invocation indicates that the Deity is a Republican. This will disappoint a host of Democrats.

  The main issue seems to be Richard Nixon. From what I’ve picked up, both parties are passionate for his nomination. I listened in on a Democratic bull session where the feeling was that Nixon, Dulles, and Benson are Democratic assets. Naturally, the Republicans have other ideas.

  Honest Len Hall has just ascertained that everybody is happy. The ways are greased and the Ship of State is sliding down to the political sea.

  I was prophetic in my guess that courage and virtue were going to be pretty much in evidence here, just as they were in Chicago. But last night I had a little time with a mug, so I guess I can take it for a few more days.

  Honest George Christopher, Mayor of San Francisco, is now making a welcoming speech that in any other place would be considered real-estate talk.

  It is said that Honest Ethel Merman is going to sing pretty soon. That is parlaying Perle Mesta across the board.

  This hasn’t been a very interesting convention so far. It is so well run that there aren’t even any lost kids. I haven’t seen a hot-dog stand. I hate to criticize but this kind of thing could
destroy the institution of the convention.

  No fights, no hot dogs—who wants it?

  The Republicans have learned one thing from the Kremlin. On the back wall are pictures of Eisenhower and Nixon three stories high. There haven’t been such huge portraits since Stalin was downgraded.

  At this moment, Honest Goodwin Knight, Governor of California, has come out fearlessly for good government.

  You can see that newspapermen in general and I in particular, who thrive and delight in turbulence and difference of opinion, seem doomed to four days of boredom unless something breaks loose. Something could—but isn’t very likely to.

  I may have to organize a splinter group myself just to keep the ball rolling. There can be too much peace and prosperity.

  I may be forced to begin to make up my copy, and I so warn my readers. You can only report a vacuum so long.

  It would be unfair to blame me for this copy—there is a gas of boredom over this gathering that grips the brain and slows the typewriter to a stop.

  Tomorrow, I will file some news if I have to create it. Maybe something is happening in Skid Row. I’m going to see.

  Can you imagine? No hot dogs.

  L’Envoi

  THIS NARRATIVE opened with a storm, the hurricane Donna, far and away the greatest sendoff an expedition ever had and I thought at the time a little overboard. And by rights it should end with a storm, and it did. But again I am troubled by matters of proportion. My travels with Charley were a simple, almost humble undertaking. They caused no flurry and piled up a limited heap of information. Thinking back, I don’t know what, if anything, I learned. Therefore the storm at the end may seem a very big stage, set for a very small drama. Of course I could whomp up a medium storm or a small earthquake in good taste and proper proportion, but in this account I have clung tenaciously, perhaps foolishly, to the truth. The storm I must use is the only storm I have.

  My lady wife lowered the New York Times and gazed at me so long that I inspected any recent deeds and impulses.

  “You’ve been invited to the inauguration,” she said.

  “You made the rule about no jokes in the morning.”

  “It says here you’ve been invited to the inauguration.”

  “By whom, for God’s sakes?”

  “By the President, who else?”

  “But I don’t know him. What is this?”

  “Four painters, four poets and four novelists. You’re one of the novelists.”

  “That’s crazy,” I said. “Everybody knows what the government thinks of artists. They’re good for questioning about overcoming the government by force and violence. I’m not sure the invitation isn’t unconstitutional. That new guy had better watch his step. Aren’t westerns good enough for him? Who does he think he is?”

  “I’ve never seen an inauguration,” she said.

  “Neither have I.”

  And there we were.

  In one trait I am predictable. I dislike being late. I arrive at the theater while they are sweeping out from the matinee. I haunt a ship hours before it has any intention of sailing. Reluctantly accepting a cocktail invitation, I usually arrive before my hostess is out of the tub.

  The historic snowstorm of the Kennedy inauguration caused endless trouble. Some heads of state were long late and some didn’t get there at all. It was not so with us. We had arrived and were billeted in a lovely house in Georgetown and were having a tall cool drink when the first snow fell and we watched it flake by flake as it slowed, and finally brought the city to a standstill, covered stalled cars with a soft white blanket. It may have inconvenienced some charging bellowing officials but for us it made of Washington the most beautiful city in the world, a quiet place. In cities, the muffled under-sound of motors is so constant that we consider it silence. When it is removed the effect is startling, almost shocking. It was very well for us sitting comfortably watching through the window while the heavy businesslike flakes settled with every intention of remaining. And the depth built up. Every statue wore a tall white cap and every marble nose was tipped with a horn like that of a rhinoceros. The streets were tangles of abandoned cars and the sidewalks narrow paths between high shoveled walls. Men and women moved with high tiptoe leaps as though speed and posture might keep the snow from their shoes. I thought of the grand preparations, the hours of ladies in beauty parlors, the hundreds of thousands of new and delicate ball gowns, the spike-heeled satin shoes a passing out might sully. What despair there must be in thousands of feminine breasts. It is true the inauguration concerned only one man who by one short oath would renounce the world he knew and could never regain it. But it is also true that if the last judgment were announced, the first and proper thought of all ladies would be “What shall I wear?” And while the archangels are preparing the courtroom and the blessed tune their harps and certain others lie hunching under their fires, the ladies will be dashing hysterically in and out of fitting rooms.

  And then, as the snow piled deeper and deeper and movement became impossible and then ridiculous—people changed. A kind of hell-for-leather gaiety invaded the city. Tragedy became a holiday. Even Republicans who had seen in the weather Divine wrath at a Democratic victory began to have fun.

  Our blessings held. The cocktail parties to which we were assigned were all in easy walking distance.

  The morning was like the Christmas song—“where the snow lay all about, deep and soft and even.” And the sun turned it glittering. In the night the Army had been out plowing the main thoroughfares. And true to form, I got us to our seats below the rostrum at the Capitol long before the ceremony, so long before that we nearly froze. Mark Twain defined women as lovely creatures with a backache. I wonder how he omitted the only other safe generality—goddesses with cold feet. A warm-footed woman would be a monstrosity.

  I think I was the only man there who heard the inauguration while holding his wife’s feet in his lap, rubbing vigorously. With every sentence of the interminable prayers, I rubbed. And the prayers were interesting, if long. One sounded like general orders to the deity issued in a parade-ground voice. One prayer brought God up to date on current events with a view to their revision. In the midst of one prayer, smoke issued from the lectern and I thought we had gone too far but it turned out to be a short circuit.

  How startling then to hear the simple stark oath of office offered and accepted. How moving. How deeply moving. I had never seen the ceremony before and it was good and I was glad.

  Only one episode remains to be told and then my travels with Charley are finished. And we have never admitted this scene although we haven’t out and out lied about it. Remember when you have visited some foreign area and some other traveler has asked, “Did you see such and such?” If you say no he screams, “What? Why that was the best. Don’t see why you went at all if you didn’t see such and such.” We have learned to reply to the question, “Wonderful.” Or “Remarkable!” That doesn’t say we did or didn’t see it and saves the argument.

  Well, we were invited to the Inaugural Ball, the biggest and most desirable one where thousands of people would gather, where all the new dresses and satin shoes and hairdos would be. In the house of our hostess, other guests were ready, fingers moving restlessly in filmy cloth or tucking in hair that had never escaped, and every mirror was a place for side-long glances. Dress ties were patted reassuringly every few seconds. The radio said that traffic conditions were impossible. Mobs of people, beautifully dressed, were floundering through snowdrifts and the great black official cars chugged through streets clanking chains. We drank together a last glass of champagne. And then everyone was gone and the house was quiet and the low lights were soft and the room a cushion of warm comfort. It was automatic. We didn’t plan it. We drank another glass of wine looking out at the mountains of snow and then we crept up to our room and put on dressing gowns. In the kitchen we made sandwiches and arranged trays. Then I stood the great and important tickets of invitation to the ball on top of the television a
nd turned on the set. We saw the President and his lady right up close and we saw the packed thousands below in crushed and snow-dabbled ball gowns. We nibbled our sandwiches and had a tall drink. And afterwards, when asked how we liked the Inaugural Ball, we have said, “Loved it. Remarkable. Wonderful!” And so it was. And we saw much more of it than the ones who were there. I guess it was the best ball I was ever invited to, and I enjoyed it the most, too.

  And in the morning the snow was past and so was the journey.

  I do know this—the big and mysterious America is bigger than I thought. And more mysterious.

  III.

  OCCASIONAL PIECES

  JOHN STEINBECK was willing, indeed eager, to write on nearly any subject—and that is both an engaging and a highly revealing fact of his career. As a writer of fiction he experimented ceaselessly. Although he’s seldom mentioned in the same breath as the high modernists, Steinbeck shared their restless need to “make it new,” to experiment with form, to mine mythic contexts, to chart the contours of modern times. Born too late to be an expatriate—six years after F. Scott Fitzgerald, three after Ernest Hemingway—and to see action in World War I, Steinbeck was, as he muses in “The Golden Handcuff” (reprinted in Part I), a part of “the Unfortunate Generation, because we didn’t have a Generation nor the sense to invent one. The Lost Generation, which preceded us, had become solvent and was no longer lost. The Beat Generation was far in the future.” He playfully notes that he was born on liminal turf, and that terrain would, in fact, define him. Realist, naturalist, symbolist, fabulist. Dramatist, novelist, journalist. Writer of hard-hitting realism and musical comedy. Steinbeck refuses to be pigeonholed. Of Mice and Men, The Moon Is Down, and Burning Bright are all “play-novelettes,” a form he invented. The Grapes of Wrath mimics documentary films with its sweeping interchapters and focused Joad narrative. The self-reflective quality of East of Eden, as recent critics have noted, anticipates metafiction. Steinbeck, self-declared citizen of the “Unfortunate Generation,” used that kind of artistic indeterminacy to his advantage. In his fiction he insisted repeatedly on his right to experiment; in his nonfiction he claimed the right to explore any subject that caught his fancy, as he notes in “Letters to Alicia”: