Travels With Charley:
In Search of America, 1962
by John Steinbeck
(February 27, 1902 – December 20, 1968)
From previous post
And a New One Just Begun
1. "I thought I might do some writing along the way, perhaps essays, surely notes, certainly letters, I took paper, carbon, typewriter, pencils, notebooks, and not only those but dictionaries, a compact encyclopedia, and a dozen other reference books, heavy ones. I suppose our capacity for self-delusions is boundless. I knew very well that I rarely make notes, and if I do I either lose them or can't read them. . . . And in spirit of this self-knowledge I [packed] enough writing material to take care of ten volumes. I also laid in a hundred and fifty pounds of those books one hasn't got around to reading -- and of course those are the books one isn't ever going to get around to reading. . . . I judge now that I carried about four times too much of everything" (11, emphasis added).
2. In this passage, Steinbeck is being detained at the American - Canadian border and having to endure a pile of hassle. He doesn't sass back, but later he thinks about it . . .
"Before I went to sleep I went over all the things I wished I had
said . . . and some of them were incredibly clever and cutting" (88; cf. L'esprit de l'escalier).
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From Previous Post
A Kind of Dream Farm
"Long ago at Easter I had a looking-egg. Peering in a little porthole at the end, I saw a lovely little farm, a kind of dream farm, and on the farmhouse chimney a stork sitting on a nest. I regarded this as a fairy-tale farm as surely imagined as gnomes sitting under toadstools. And then in Denmark I saw that farm or its brother, and it was true, just as it had been in the looking-egg. And in Salinas, California, where I grew up, although we had some frost the climate was cool and foggy. When we saw colored pictures of a Vermont autumn forest it was another fairy thing and we frankly didn't believe it. In school we memorized "Snowbound" and little poems about Old Jack Frost and his paintbrush, but the only thing Jack Frost did for us was put a thin skin of ice on the watering trough, and that rarely. To find not only that this bedlam of color was true but that the pictures were pale and inaccurate translations, was to me startling. I can't even imagine the forest colors when I am not seeing them. I wondered whether constant association could cause inattention, and asked a native New Hampshire woman about it. She said the autumn never failed to amaze her; to elate. "It is a glory," she said, "and can't be remembered, so that it always comes as a surprise" (36 - 37, emphasis added).
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From Previous Post
Anyplace Away From Here
“I saw in their eyes something I was to see over and over in every part of the nation -- a burning desire to go, to move, to get under way, anyplace, away from any Here. They spoke quietly of how they wanted to go someday, to move about, free and unanchored, not toward something but away from something. I saw this look and heard this yearning everywhere in every state I visited. Nearly every American hungers to move. . . . nearly all Americans move away, or want to” (10, emphasis added; 99).
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From previous post
Memorial Day Mural
I wish any two states could get together on a speed limit. Just about the time you get used to fifty miles an hour you cross a state line and it’s sixty-five. I wonder why they can’t settle down and agree. However, in one matter all states agree — each one admits it is the finest of all and announces that fact in huge letters as you cross the state line. Among nearly forty I didn’t see a single state that hadn’t a good word to say for itself. It seemed a little indelicate. It might be better to let visitors find out for themselves. But maybe we wouldn’t if it weren’t drawn to our attention" (42).
"We know, of course, that each of our states is an individual and proud of it. Not content with their names, they take descriptive titles also — the Empire State, the Garden State, the Granite State — titles proudly borne and little given to understatement. But now for the first time I became aware that each state had also its in dividual prose style, made sharply evident in its highway signs. Crossing state lines one is aware of this change of language. The New England states use a terse form of instruction, a tight-lipped, laconic style sheet, wasting no words and few letters. New York State shouts at you the whole time. Do this. Do that. Squeeze left. Squeeze right. Every few feet an imperious command. In Ohio the signs are more benign. They offer friendly advice, and are more like suggestions. Some states use a turgid style which can get you lost with the greatest ease. There are states which tell you what you may expect to find in the way of road conditions ahead, while others let you find out for yourself. Nearly all have abandoned the adverb for the adjective. Drive Slow. Drive Safe" (79 - 80).
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