Depressed by requests for money, tainted by the public aspects of fame, and shocked by the workers’ plight, Steinbeck felt so tired he wished he were dead. Instead, he threw himself into the writing of “L’Affaire Lettuceberg” as a way of exorcising his frustrating anger and reclaiming his discipline.
Entry #1
February [7?] 1938—[Monday]
It seems to be necessary to write things down. Can’t stop it. February now and raining steadily. The play M & M [Ed.-Of Mice and Men] went on and is a success. And with its success, I know there is never to be any ease, any pleasure for me. People I liked have changed. Thinking there is money, they want it. And even if they don’t want anything, they watch me and they aren’t natural any more. Gene* died two weeks ago; it could so easily have been me and I wish so much it had been. I’m tired of living completely tired. I’m tired of the struggle against all the forces that this miserable success has brought against me. I don’t know whether I could write a decent book now. That is the greatest fear of all. I’m working at it but I can’t tell. Something is poisoned in me. You pages—ten of you—you are the dribble cup—you are the cloth to wipe up the vomit. Maybe I can get these fears and disgusts on you and then burn you up. Then maybe I won’t be so haunted. Have to pretend it’s that way anyhow. There’s Lorentz who should be here by now and there are the starving people of Visalia and Nipomo. * I really don’t care about the moving picture. Really don’t—but those people who are starving—what can be done? And the people with panaceas of all kinds. Will you lend your name to this and to this? What do I care about my name? It is battered and completely out of shape anyway. It hasn’t any meaning and I haven’t any meaning. “Seen about your luck.” I got no luck. “Send one hundred dollars.” Luck! He thinks it is luck. He is poor and he thinks I am rich. And he seen about my luck. In the cheap welter, he seen about my luck. He seen about my destruction only he couldn’t understand that. The Greeks seem to have known about this dark relationship between luck and destruction. It is so hard to know anything. So impossible to trust oneself. Even to know what there is to trust. My will is low. I must build my will again. And I can do it even as I have done before. The time passes. The thoughts race.
PART II:
The Diary of a Book
(May-October 1938)
But the sureness of touch, the characters that move about, the speech that sounds like speaking, the fact that it happens, that one is never conscious of how a thing is said but only of what is said. I know the why and how of that. It’s the millions of words written, all the short stories, even the ones that weren’t any good. Without the millions of words written it is impossible to write a book like this. And by the same token—those millions of words are a guarantee that the last half will not falter for a moment.
—Steinbeck, on reading the manuscript of Louis Paul’s novel, The Wrong World (1938). (Courtesy of University of Virginia Library)
Commentary
The following ninety-nine entries, which cover the summer and fall of 1938, constitute the truest story of the making of The Grapes of Wrath. They comprise Steinbeck’s attempt, with a kind of scientific preciseness, “to map the actual working days and hours” of his novel, and they provide an unparalleled record of the shapings and seizings, the naked slidings, of his creative psyche. No other account matches this one for personal intensity, dedication, investment, and drama.
Unlike the sprawling, digressive entries on symbolism, characterization, and philosophy that mark Steinbeck’s daily log for his 1952 novel East of Eden (the entries were published posthumously in 1969 as Journal of a Novel: The East of Eden Letters), here Steinbeck is working in a different mode—more focused and sharper, less self-reflexive and expansive, but of course no less revealing about his habitual writerly concerns. Readers accustomed to the tone of familiarity and camaraderie of Journal of a Novel (the entries were daily letters to Pascal Covici) will find this “diary of a book” limited in intention and scope, and hermetic—even claustrophobic—in tone and attitude. Brief, direct, staccato, these daily notes took the place of his normally voluminous “warm-up” correspondence. They helped regulate his discipline in the face of an inordinate number of interruptions— some worthwhile, most merely bothersome—that his growing public fame had brought him. (A cheeky agent for Selznick International Pictures set the tone of the summer by requesting an “advanced reading” of the unwritten novel “to review its motion picture possibilities”; exasperated, Steinbeck directed his agents to reply that “the book will not be for sale!”)
Despite the “leisurely” pace he hoped to establish for his novel, most of these entries have a breathless quality, as though they were written impatiently in shorthand. Steinbeck, it seems, could hardly wait to address the day’s fictive project before his concentration and inspiration waned. Morever, the entries attest to Steinbeck’s covenant with the written word. His subject was incendiary and as contemporaneous as the day’s newspaper headlines, but his compact with the fiction-making process took precedence over sociological or political demands. He was writing a novel, not a journalistic tract. If this section reveals comparatively few new secrets about Steinbeck’s novel, it says plenty about the tumultuous conditions of his life, and his mode of working, during the stretch that produced his finest novel. Like most great books, The Grapes of Wrath was certainly not created in a vacuum.
Understandably, maintaining his intensity was paramount. Without looking back, Steinbeck overcame the disappointing “L’Affaire Lettuceberg,” which he had destroyed in mid-May; within a week, or perhaps ten days at the most, he started headlong on the new, unnamed manuscript, which wasn’t actually titled The Grapes of Wrath until early September. However, his work on “L’Affaire” wasn’t wasted, and certainly cannot be underestimated, because it cleared the way for The Grapes by purging his deep personal depression, and by exorcising his base instincts, including unchecked anger and the desire for his own brand of artistic vengeance. Naturally, his partisanship for the migrants and his sense of indignation at California’s labor situation carried over to the new book, but they were given a more articulate, and therefore believable, shape. The whole process of passing through a “bad” book proved beneficial. Without stopping to analyze its effects, he told Elizabeth Otis on June 1, “... it is a nice thing to be working and believing in my work again. I hope I can keep the drive all fall. I like it. I only feel whole and well when it is this way. I don’t yet understand what happened or why the bad book should have cleared the air so completely for this one. I am simply glad that it is so” (Steinbeck and Wallsten, eds., Steinbeck: A Life in Letters, p. 167).
The epic scale and engaged purpose of Grapes had been building for some time, but apparently crystallized between May 15 and May 25, 1938. During that time—perhaps the most fertile germinative moment in Steinbeck’s writing life—the organizational plan of the novel, with its alternating chapters of exposition and narrative, leaped to life in his mind. Judged against his contemporary, William Faulkner, Steinbeck was not a sophisticated literary practitioner, and while he wrote nothing to rival the architectural virtuosity of Absalom, Absalom! (1936), he did achieve in The Grapes of Wrath a compelling combination of individual style, visual realism, and rambunctious symphonic form that was at once accessible and experimental. Furthermore, as these entries suggest, he actually envisioned the novel whole, all the way down to the subversive last scene “ready for so long” (Rose of Sharon giving her breast to a starving man), which became both the propelling image of the book and the imaginative climax toward which the entire novel moved.
Indeed, except for a few particulars, The Grapes of Wrath was written with remarkably preordained motion and directed passion. Steinbeck apparently did not work from a formal outline (nothing of the kind has ever turned up); rather, he sketched out the novel in his head—in aggregate first, then followed by a brief planning session each day. He had plenty of questions about his ability to execute the plan, but few about the
plan itself; from the outset he knew the direction his book and his characters would take. Unlike his other “big” novel, East of Eden, which discovered its form (and sometimes its content) in the act of composition, The Grapes of Wrath was an intuited whole. This journal records the sweaty process through which Steinbeck liberated his materials, gave them direction, shape, and form nearly commensurate with his primary vision. The Grapes of Wrath embodies the form of his devotion: in the entire 200,000-word handwritten manuscript the number of deletions and emendations is proportionately so few and infrequent as to be nearly nonexistent. (The textual changes—mostly minor—occurred in Carol’s typescript and on Viking Press’s galley sheets.) Ironically, though Steinbeck severely doubted his own artistic ability, in writing The Grapes of Wrath he was creating with the full potency of his imaginative powers. His ability to execute a work of its magnitude so flawlessly places him among the premier creative talents of his age. From the vantage point of history, the venture stands as one of those happy occasions when a writer simply wrote better than he thought he could.
Undeterred by the failure of his vigilante novel, Steinbeck set out immediately to establish a unified work rhythm, a “single track mind” that would allow him to complete the enormous task in one hundred days, or approximately five months. Though he had written steadily throughout the 1930s (he published eleven books and/or limited editions in the first eight years of the decade), the work never seemed to get easier. Averaging 2,000 words a day (some days as few as 800, some days, when the juices were flowing, as many as 2,200), Steinbeck began the novel unhurriedly to keep its “tempo” under control, hoping at the same time to keep alive the large rhythmic structure of the novel. This he accomplished by listening to Tchaikovsky’s ballet Swan Lake, and Igor Stravinsky’s “very fine” Symphony of Psalms. Music inspired him by setting a mood conducive to writing and by establishing a rhythm for the day’s work. Even more important, classical music provided Steinbeck with formal, harmonic, and lyric analogies for his fiction. In writing The Grapes, he said, “I have worked in a musical technique . . . and have tried to use the forms and the mathematics of music rather than those of prose.... In composition, in movement, in tone and in scope it is symphonic” (John Steinbeck/Merle Armitage, letter, February 17, 1939; courtesy of University of Virginia Library). The contrapuntal form of the novel, with its alternating chapters, its consonant combination of major chords, is deeply rooted in the attentiveness, the tonal acuity, of Steinbeck’s ear. (But not to put too fine a construction on this, when Steinbeck didn’t have his music, he listened to the washing machine—its metronomic beat was soothing, at least for a while).
As Steinbeck’s anxiety escalated during the late summer, his pace became increasingly frenetic, his attention splintered, and his work became a chore. “Was ever a book written under greater difficulty?” he asked himself on September 1. That he completed the novel within the time he had allotted testifies to his discipline, resilience, willpower, and singleness of purpose. This story of the composition of his novel is a dramatic testimony to triumph over intrusions, obstacles, and self-inflicted doubts. Nearly each day brought unsolicited requests for his name and new demands on his time, including unscheduled visitors, unanticipated disruptions and reversals. Domestic relations with Carol were frequently strained, even hostile (Steinbeck apparently subscribed to the theory that sexual intercourse dissipated the creative drive). Throughout the summer a procession of house guests trooped to Los Gatos, including family members and longtime friends Carlton Sheffield, Ed Ricketts, and the Lovejoys, plus new acquaintances, such as Wallace and Martha Ford, Broderick Crawford, Charlie Chaplin, and Pare Lorentz.
As if that weren’t enough to erode the novelist’s intitial composure and solitude, the Steinbecks’ tiny house on Greenwood Lane was besieged with the noise of neighborhood building, which nearly drove them to distraction. “This place is getting built up and we have to move. Houses all around us now and so we will get back farther in the country.... I can hear the neighbors’ stomachs rumbling,” he complained to Elizabeth Otis on July 22 (Steinbeck and Wallsten, eds., Steinbeck: A Life in Letters, p. 169). By midsummer, hoping for permanent sanctuary, they began looking at secluded real estate, finally settling on the Biddle ranch, a forty-seven-acre spread in the Santa Cruz Mountains above Los Gatos. Even though it was the most stunning location they had ever seen, its original homestead was in utter disrepair, so besides buying the land the Steinbecks would also have to build a new house, and that too became the source of additional frustrations and distractions. They didn’t move there until November 1938—the month after the novel was finished (all final corrections of the typescript and galley proofs took place at the Biddle ranch)—but preparations for its purchase took up a great deal of Steinbeck’s time and energy from mid-July onward.
Although Steinbeck insisted on effacing his own presence in The Grapes of Wrath, the fact is that it was a very personal book, invested with biographical import. In a general way, the “plodding” pace of Steinbeck’s writing schedule informed the slow, “crawling” movement of the Joads’ journey, while the harried beat of his own life gave the proper “feel” and tone to the beleagured Joads. Specifically, aspects of Steinbeck’s life bore directly on manuscript decisions. For instance, on July 12, confused by increasing distractions and lured by the possibility of owning the Biddle ranch, Steinbeck did not know which “general” chapter he would use next. During the planning session of Wednesday morning, July 13, he settled on what would become Chapter 14, one of the most important theoretical chapters in the novel, and perhaps the most significant summation of organismal philosophy Steinbeck had yet written. The first half of the chapter augurs changes in the Western states’ socioeconomic basis, and includes a paean to the universal human capacity for creation: “For man, unlike any other thing organic or inorganic in the universe, grows beyond his work, walks up the stairs of his concepts, emerges ahead of his accomplishments.” The second half of the chapter expresses the central core of Steinbeck’s mature phalanx theory, the creation of an aggregate, dynamic “we” from distinct, myriad selves. The summary quality of this chapter suggests that Steinbeck intended to use it later in the novel as a kind of climactic crescendo. Instead he inserted it at the midpoint of the novel for several reasons: its dithyrambic tone and heightened language reawakened his flagging attention; its optimistic, theoretical values restored focus and clarity to the narrative line; its extolment of creativity, based on humanity’s willingness to “suffer and die for a concept,” provided an immediate reminder that his own compositional process could be endured for the sake of the cause he espoused; and its concern for families who had lost their land may have partly assuaged his guilt, if not his sense of irony, as he was about to make the biggest property purchase of his life.
Emerging ahead of his accomplishments seemed insurmountable at times that summer, because major interruptions kept occurring, any one of which might have sidetracked a lesser writer. August proved the most embattled time of all. Early in the month Steinbeck noted in his journal: “There are now four things or five rather to write through—throat, bankruptcy, Pare, ranch, and the book” (Entry #46). His litany of woes included Carol’s painful tonsil operation, which temporarily incapacitated her; the bankruptcy of Steinbeck’s publisher, Covici-Friede, which threatened the end of steady royalty payments and an uncertain publishing future for the novel he was writing; Pare Lorentz’s interest in making a film version of In Dubious Battle: the purchase of the Biddle ranch, which Carol wanted badly and Steinbeck felt compelled to buy for her (they argued over the pressure this caused); and the book itself, still untitled (and therefore still without “being”), which now seemed more recalcitrant than ever. “My work has been slowed by many people coming and beside I think I am a little tired,” he confessed to his agent. “We still haven’t a name for this book. I’ve reached a point of weariness where it seems lousy to me.... Lord I hope this book is some good. Right now, it doesn’t
seem so” (John Steinbeck/Elizabeth Otis, letter, August 1938; courtesy of Stanford University Library). And to a fellow novelist, Steinbeck apologized for the “tangle” that prevented their usual visits. “I’m getting frantic about this work. Have to work through and around a dozen things.... Getting pushed around pretty much from a number of directions” (John Steinbeck/Louis Paul, postcard, August 3, 1938; courtesy of University of Virginia Library).
By mid-August, roughly halfway through the novel, Steinbeck took stock of his situation: The Viking Press had just bought his contract, hired Pat Covici as part of the deal, and planned a first edition of 15,000 copies for The Long Valley: a string of famous houseguests had either just departed or were scheduled to arrive; and he and Carol had closed on the purchase of the Biddle ranch. “Demoralization complete and seemingly unbeatable. So many things happening that I can’t not be interested.... All this is more excitement than our whole lives put together. All crowded into a month.... My many weaknesses are beginning to show their heads. I simply must get this thing out of my system. I’m not a writer. I’ve been fooling myself and other people. I wish I were. This success will ruin me as sure as hell. It probably won’t last, and that will be all right. I’ll try to go on with work now. Just a stint every day does it. I keep forgetting” (Entry #52).
Working Days Page 6
