AUTHOR PROFILE
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Location:
I’m John Steinbeck, coming back to Salinas to take a look around, visit this museum on Main Street named after me—think of it, a NATIONAL Steinbeck Center—and wander down Central Avenue to my childhood home. That big old house doesn’t look much different now than it did in 1902, when I was born in the front room. I might just have lunch today in the parlor—lots of tourists do that now and I just might join them. My mother, Olive, made sure we minded our manners in that parlor, and I’d love to sit there and remember all the times I played the piano that sat in that room. Meals were important to the Steinbecks, that’s for sure. We ate together as a family most every night in the room that’s now, I hear, part of the kitchen. But once there was a big dining room table there, where I sat with my two older sisters, Beth and Esther, and my younger sister, Mary—she and I argued quite a bit at that table. My father, Ernst, was a quiet man, but he liked to have his family around him.
3rd person bio:
I’d be 114 this year, turning 115 by the time we have a new president. I knew several presidents—Roosevelt, Kennedy, Lyndon Johnson. Actually I worked hard to make Adlai Stevenson president—really admired that man. After the 1956 election, when Stevenson lost, I wrote to his law partner that I thought it was a “pleasure” and “an honor” to help write speeches for Stevenson--look at me, quoting myself. I believed then and am convinced now that a writer’s responsibility is to be involved, that it is the “duty of a citizen to inspect and to criticize” his or her country. That’s what I did, most of my career. In 1960 I traveled all over the United States with Charley the poodle just to hear what people were saying about the 1960 election. I wanted to listen to American opinions, to talk to ordinary people. Loved that, all my career—listening to people talk, capturing their voices. Think of Lennie, of Tom Joad. Those characters spoke just like the people I knew when I worked on California ranches.
You know, writing about Tom Joad and criticizing the state of California got me into some hot water in the late 1930s, when I could hardly be seen in my home town of Salinas—they thought I was a “Red” and a traitor to my own people when I sided with the field workers, the migrants who were traveling to California, looking for work. I wouldn’t mind getting into some hot water once again, writing about injustice. I said this in 1962 and it needs to be said today, I think—wish I could: “The thing that arouses me to fury more than anything else is the imposition of force by a stronger on a weaker for reasons of self interest or greed. That arouses me to a fury. It’s the one unforgivable thing I can think of.” Just writing that down again makes me want to write
I guess I was just born restless, unsettled with things as they were, curious about how others lived, sympathetic with those on the outside, the marginalized. I felt like an outsider myself when I was a teenager, so I guess I never forgot how that felt.
In the 1940s I wanted to go overseas to fight in World War II, but I couldn't go—the Armed Services also suspected I was a communist after I published The Grapes of Wrath. Think of that, a patriotic guy like me. So I went overseas as a writer—that’s what I’m best at, after all, and wrote about what soldiers endured. And I went to Russia in 1947 to see what the Russian people endured. I guess I always just wanted to be on the scene, to investigate what was happening—a journalist at heart, said one of my college friends. Even went to Vietnam in 1966. I needed to witness the war my son was fighting in. I needed to see what Lydon Johnson had gotten the country involved with. That series of articles I wrote, “Letters to Alicia,” got me into some hot water as well. American readers thought I’d become conservative because I tried to explain weapons, tried to understand the war. Read Steinbeck and Vietnam. Maybe you’ll see what I was up to then—seeing a war I ended up thinking was very wrong.
I love being back here in Salinas, my home country where I’m buried in the soil that I so cherished. Sure, I lived in New York City for the last two decades of my life, but my heart was always here in Steinbeck Country—Salinas, Pacific Grove, Monterey. Love the hills, the sea, the memories—of Ed Ricketts, of my early career as a writer of short stories and books about paisanos and ranchers and workers.
Why do you write?
I write because I have to. I love words. I used to read the dictionary when I was young, read and reread the King Arthur tales, write poems for birthday presents. Stories and words and sentences had secret power for me as a boy. I wrote stories in high school and articles for my high school yearbook. You know what my classmate’s prophecy for me was my senior year in high school? Listen to this:
“The church of a far-off city
Came towering into view
Where John was preaching in solemn tones
To many a well-filled pew.” (2)
I guess they thought that love of language would turn me into a preacher. But I wanted to be a writer, and I went to Stanford University in 1919 not to become a banker—as my mother thought—but to learn more about story-writing. Wrote every day of my life—letters, journals, stories, articles, novels, filmscripts. How I loved to write.
Do I love other writers? Well, of course I appreciate other American writers—Hemingway’s prose was a miracle of precision and clarity. I admired his writing almost more than I can say. But there were others, of course. When I wrote, I’d read Herodotus or classical history. That kept my own vision clear—as reading a Hemingway novel would not have. I’d have been hearing his voice as I tried to write my own story. Couldn’t have had that. So I turned to ancient history.
Tell us about the mechanics of how you write.
I wrote in pen. I wrote in pencil. I wrote in ledger books that my father discarded--, he was the treasurer of Monterey County late in his career. Later I favored yellow legal pads. Sometimes I dictated stories—that happened later in my career. I’d play back what I’d written to hear the sound of words. You know, if you read the journal I wrote when I composed East of Eden, you’ll see how much I liked pencils. I used over 300 pencils! Good ones too.
Finally, what do you think about Carp, the fish, not our website?
A carp is not a fish to love. A salmon is a fish to love or sea bass or snapper, and I caught all of these fish and more when I lived in Pacific Grove, near the ocean. I had a little skiff and sometimes my wife and I went out fishing in Monterey Bay—easy to catch fish then. Sometimes I collected invertebrates with my best friend, Ed Ricketts—not fish but the “little beasties” that he loved.
I’m John Steinbeck, coming back to Salinas to take a look around, visit this museum on Main Street named after me—think of it, a NATIONAL Steinbeck Center—and wander down Central Avenue to my childhood home. That big old house doesn’t look much different now than it did in 1902, when I was born in the front room. I might just have lunch today in the parlor—lots of tourists do that now and I just might join them. My mother, Olive, made sure we minded our manners in that parlor, and I’d love to sit there and remember all the times I played the piano that sat in that room. Meals were important to the Steinbecks, that’s for sure. We ate together as a family most every night in the room that’s now, I hear, part of the kitchen. But once there was a big dining room table there, where I sat with my two older sisters, Beth and Esther, and my younger sister, Mary—she and I argued quite a bit at that table. My father, Ernst, was a quiet man, but he liked to have his family around him.
3rd person bio:
I’d be 114 this year, turning 115 by the time we have a new president. I knew several presidents—Roosevelt, Kennedy, Lyndon Johnson. Actually I worked hard to make Adlai Stevenson president—really admired that man. After the 1956 election, when Stevenson lost, I wrote to his law partner that I thought it was a “pleasure” and “an honor” to help write speeches for Stevenson--look at me, quoting myself. I believed then and am convinced now that a writer’s responsibility is to be involved, that it is the “duty of a citizen to inspect and to criticize” his or her country. That’s what I did, most of my career. In 1960 I traveled all over the United States with Charley the poodle just to hear what people were saying about the 1960 election. I wanted to listen to American opinions, to talk to ordinary people. Loved that, all my career—listening to people talk, capturing their voices. Think of Lennie, of Tom Joad. Those characters spoke just like the people I knew when I worked on California ranches.
You know, writing about Tom Joad and criticizing the state of California got me into some hot water in the late 1930s, when I could hardly be seen in my home town of Salinas—they thought I was a “Red” and a traitor to my own people when I sided with the field workers, the migrants who were traveling to California, looking for work. I wouldn’t mind getting into some hot water once again, writing about injustice. I said this in 1962 and it needs to be said today, I think—wish I could: “The thing that arouses me to fury more than anything else is the imposition of force by a stronger on a weaker for reasons of self interest or greed. That arouses me to a fury. It’s the one unforgivable thing I can think of.” Just writing that down again makes me want to write
I guess I was just born restless, unsettled with things as they were, curious about how others lived, sympathetic with those on the outside, the marginalized. I felt like an outsider myself when I was a teenager, so I guess I never forgot how that felt.
In the 1940s I wanted to go overseas to fight in World War II, but I couldn't go—the Armed Services also suspected I was a communist after I published The Grapes of Wrath. Think of that, a patriotic guy like me. So I went overseas as a writer—that’s what I’m best at, after all, and wrote about what soldiers endured. And I went to Russia in 1947 to see what the Russian people endured. I guess I always just wanted to be on the scene, to investigate what was happening—a journalist at heart, said one of my college friends. Even went to Vietnam in 1966. I needed to witness the war my son was fighting in. I needed to see what Lydon Johnson had gotten the country involved with. That series of articles I wrote, “Letters to Alicia,” got me into some hot water as well. American readers thought I’d become conservative because I tried to explain weapons, tried to understand the war. Read Steinbeck and Vietnam. Maybe you’ll see what I was up to then—seeing a war I ended up thinking was very wrong.
I love being back here in Salinas, my home country where I’m buried in the soil that I so cherished. Sure, I lived in New York City for the last two decades of my life, but my heart was always here in Steinbeck Country—Salinas, Pacific Grove, Monterey. Love the hills, the sea, the memories—of Ed Ricketts, of my early career as a writer of short stories and books about paisanos and ranchers and workers.
Why do you write?
I write because I have to. I love words. I used to read the dictionary when I was young, read and reread the King Arthur tales, write poems for birthday presents. Stories and words and sentences had secret power for me as a boy. I wrote stories in high school and articles for my high school yearbook. You know what my classmate’s prophecy for me was my senior year in high school? Listen to this:
“The church of a far-off city
Came towering into view
Where John was preaching in solemn tones
To many a well-filled pew.” (2)
I guess they thought that love of language would turn me into a preacher. But I wanted to be a writer, and I went to Stanford University in 1919 not to become a banker—as my mother thought—but to learn more about story-writing. Wrote every day of my life—letters, journals, stories, articles, novels, filmscripts. How I loved to write.
Do I love other writers? Well, of course I appreciate other American writers—Hemingway’s prose was a miracle of precision and clarity. I admired his writing almost more than I can say. But there were others, of course. When I wrote, I’d read Herodotus or classical history. That kept my own vision clear—as reading a Hemingway novel would not have. I’d have been hearing his voice as I tried to write my own story. Couldn’t have had that. So I turned to ancient history.
Tell us about the mechanics of how you write.
I wrote in pen. I wrote in pencil. I wrote in ledger books that my father discarded--, he was the treasurer of Monterey County late in his career. Later I favored yellow legal pads. Sometimes I dictated stories—that happened later in my career. I’d play back what I’d written to hear the sound of words. You know, if you read the journal I wrote when I composed East of Eden, you’ll see how much I liked pencils. I used over 300 pencils! Good ones too.
Finally, what do you think about Carp, the fish, not our website?
A carp is not a fish to love. A salmon is a fish to love or sea bass or snapper, and I caught all of these fish and more when I lived in Pacific Grove, near the ocean. I had a little skiff and sometimes my wife and I went out fishing in Monterey Bay—easy to catch fish then. Sometimes I collected invertebrates with my best friend, Ed Ricketts—not fish but the “little beasties” that he loved.