In its original form, Sweet Thursday was consciously proposed as a tonal, thematic counterbalance to the "weight" of East of Eden, Steinbeck told Elizabeth Otis, his literary agent and the dedicatee of Sweet Thursday, on September 14, 1953: "it is kind of light and gay and astringent." A boisterous sequel to Steinbeck's more famous Cannery Row, which appeared nine years earlier (treating Monterey's prewar era), Sweet Thursday shares the same Monterey Peninsula location in Northern California and many of the same characters as Cannery Row, but it takes up the post-World War II life of Doc (based on Steinbeck's soul mate, Edward F. Ricketts, who had died in an auto-train crash on Ocean View Avenue in May 1948). The novel emphasizes Doc's difficulties in reestablishing his Western Biological Laboratory business, his struggles with writing a scholarly treatise on octopi, and his rocky off-again, on-again relationship with an angry, tough-talking, golden-hearted hooker-turned-waitress named Suzy. It also features the burlesque-like antics of the Row's Palace Flop house denizens (Mack, Hazel, and others) and Fauna, the madam of the Bear Flag, who--playing Cupid for Doc and Suzy--wants to ensure a romantic fairy-tale ending for the incompatible but otherwise smitten couple.
As this brief summary suggests, when approached from a rigidly analytical position, Sweet Thursday can be considered sentimental (like most other hookers at Fauna's Bear Flag brothel, Suzy's indelible goodness erases her stigma as a prostitute, even a half-assed one at that), reductive (Doc imagines he cannot be happy without a woman to complete his identity), and improbable (the plot hinges on coincidences and convenient superficialities). Such flaws--trumpeted by many critics and scholars as indisputable proof of Steinbeck's declining powers--have made the book an easy target for snipers, as it was for the unnamed Time reviewer who, in its June 14, 1954, issue, held nothing back: "Sweet Thursday is a turkey with visible Saroyanesque stuffings. But where [William] Saroyan might have clothed the book's characters and incidents with comic reality, Steinbeck merely comic-strips them of all reality and even of very much interest."
But to arrive at the deeper significance of this oddball fiction, questions of character motivation and realism need to be contextualized. Sweet Thursday is important for what it reveals of Steinbeck's continuing aesthetic and philosophical changes and for his attitude toward the necessity of fictive experimentation in the unsettling wake of a postwar depletion (symbolized by the decline of sardines in Monterey Bay), and a pervasive exhaustion that influenced all levels of Cannery Row's existence.
Steinbeck understood the corrosive nature of discontent and disaffection. There was a span in his career, beginning in mid-1948, when he was cut adrift from accustomed moorings by the death of Ed Ricketts and by his divorce shortly afterward from Gwyn Conger, his second wife, whom he married in 1943 and with whom he had two children, Thom and John IV. On and off for over a year, Steinbeck was mired in enervation, isolation, misogyny, and self-pity, and his self-identity as a writer seemed splintered, fragmented, even fraudulent, as Jackson Benson has graphically documented in The True Adventures of John Steinbeck. After The Pearl and The Wayward Bus, both published in 1947, this customarily resilient writer found it increasingly difficult to settle on his next project (the many versions of Zapata, for instance, the false starts on East of Eden, and the several unwritten plays he planned during this period). Steinbeck's personal disarray and emotional discontentedness, coupled with his awakening reaction to America's Cold War intellectual climate, which called into question the validity of socialist economies, set him on a road toward an end he could not yet envision but whose allurements he apparently could not refuse. In the feverish and sometimes blind searches of that period from 1948 through the early 1950s, he underwent deep readjustments toward many things, not the least of them his own art.
In his relationship with his third wife, Elaine Anderson Scott, whom he met in May 1949 and married in December 1950, Steinbeck discovered healing powers in love and mutual domestic attachment that in turn had a direct, exponential bearing on his work energy and anticipation and, by his own admission, may have saved him from despair and worse. His May 30, 1951, entry in Journal of a Novel puts it all on the line: "And what changes there have been. I did not expect to survive them and I don't think I would have. Every life force was shriveling. Work was non-existent. The wounds were gangrenous and mostly I just didn't give a dam [sic]. Now two years later I have a new life and a direction. I am doing work I like."
Steinbeck validated his recovery by repeating it. In Sweet Thursday, Steinbeck's own emotional and creative processes became the novel's subject. In writing about Doc trying to write his scholarly essay, and in portraying indomitable Suzy as a catalyst for self-awareness and conjugal fulfillment, Steinbeck turned out to be narrating nothing less than the symbolic story of his own emotional rescue and artistic refashioning. Steinbeck probably realized that blurring himself and Ricketts would be problematical: "Wouldn't it be interesting if Ed was us and that now there wasn't any such thing or that he created out of his own mind something that went away with him," Steinbeck wrote Ritch and Tal Lovejoy right after Ricketts's death in May 1948. "I've wondered a lot about that. How much was Ed and how much was me and which was which[?]" In the process of writing Sweet Thursday, Steinbeck did not "purposefully...destroy or deprecate Doc," as Peter Lisca maintained in The Wide World of John Steinbeck. Instead, Steinbeck replaced Doc with himself; in recasting his portrait of the artist, he did so in an entirely familiar scale, which is perhaps why he confessed to Elizabeth Otis on September 14, 1953, that the new work is "a little self indulgent."
Steinbeck took enormous plea sure in producing this blissful novel. He exorcised his painful marriage with second wife Gwyn in Burning Bright and East of Eden, whose characters reflect aspects of his own tortured relationship. In Sweet Thursday he allowed himself the luxury to indulge in the happiness of his present moment and his transformative new life with Elaine. Rationalization or not, as a person who labored with words day in and day out, year after year, he often spoke of his need for his task to be "fun." "There is a school of thought among writers which says that if you enjoy writing something it is automatically no good and should be thrown out," he told Elizabeth Otis. "I can't agree with this." If Cannery Row represented the way things were, he explained in November 1953 to Harold Bicknell and Grant Mclean (the real-life models of Gabe and Mack), then his new project became the way things "might have happened to Ed and didn't." The two propositions ("one can be as true as the other") are necessary for a holistic view of the novelist's mind and for an understanding of what the spirit of Ed Ricketts meant to Steinbeck, who didn't "seem able to get over his death," as he told former Stanford classmate Carlton A. Sheffield on November 2, 1953.
Significantly rooted in personal experience, memory, longing, and emotion, Sweet Thursday foregrounds the struggle of individual consciousness in (and through) language. In doing so, Steinbeck keeps a good part of Ed Ricketts and his legacy alive. In chapter 6, "The Creative Cross," Doc's tribulations in researching and writing his proposed scholarly essay, "Symptoms in Some Cephalopods Approximating Apoplexy," mirror aspects of Steinbeck's preparatory stages in his own creative regime; Doc's prewriting jitters and inability to concentrate are colored as well by Steinbeck's wrenching artistic and personal upheavals of the late 1940s and his awareness of the need for emotional fulfillment:
For hours on end he sat at his desk with a yellow pad before him and his needle-sharp pencils lined up. Sometimes his wastebasket was full of crushed, scribbled pages, and at others not even a doodle went down. Then he would move to the aquarium and stare into it. And his voices howled and cried and moaned. "Write!" said his top voice, and "Search!" said his middle voice, and his lowest voice sighed, "Lonesome! Lonesome!" He did not go down without a struggle. He resurrected old love affairs, he swam deep in music, he read the Sorrows of Werther; but the voices would not leave him. The beckoning yellow pages became his enemies.
Writing, like so many other endeavors in life, including romance
and courtship, Steinbeck shows, is less a condition of mastery than it is hard work, full of self-doubt, false steps, insecurities, angers, frustrations, and disruptions. Steinbeck suggests that success lies as much in the marshaling of conjunctive forces and ambient fortune as it does in the completion of the scholarly project. Paradoxically, there is a telling difference in ends, because the form Steinbeck adopts for Sweet Thursday takes on a life of its own, borrows heavily from other literary works, and veers away from the kind of objective, autonomous document a practicing scientist would be expected to produce. Steinbeck must have realized, as he reread and reimagined the Doc of Cannery Row and "About Ed Ricketts" (1951), that only by embracing comedy and tragedy, realism and fabulation, the inarticulate "transcendental sadness" of Cannery Row and the "frabjous" expression of joy of Sweet Thursday, could Steinbeck lay to rest the ghost of Ed Ricketts, which, by this time, had become the symbol of Steinbeck himself.
Steinbeck playfully names chapter 10 "There's a Hole in Reality through which We Can Look if We Wish," demonstrating that in the seesaw form of Sweet Thursday, Steinbeck was able to bring both the narrative plot and the process of reflexive commentary into a single work. The performance appears to be made up on the spot, and its spontaneity undercuts the novel's pretensions and dismantles the rules of its own invention: "There are people who will say that this whole account is a lie, but a thing isn't necessarily a lie even if it didn't necessarily happen," the narrator claims at the end of chapter 8. In various characters' use of malapropisms and in Mack's humorous use of Latin phrases and exalted language, Sweet Thursday questions the representational ability of language (and class) while it validates the process by which such mysteries emerge without ever being fully concluded. Steinbeck demystifies the role of the artist by emphasizing the prewriting process, the elusiveness of language, and the necessity for human bonding, rather than the finished result (Doc has yet to write his essay as the book ends, but he has been awarded a research grant by Old Jingleballicks). That characters as diverse as Doc; Joe Elegant, the Bear Flag's cook, who is writing a Freudian novel called "The Pi Root of Oedipus"; and Fauna, who not only writes horoscopes but authors Suzy's conduct and manners ("I should write a book.... 'If She Could, I Could,'" she boasts in chapter 22), all wrestle with compositional acts and problems of inscription highlights Steinbeck's perception that the tangled wilderness of language (whether of speech, writing, sexuality, body gesture, or masquerade dress) is one of the few frontiers left to us in a discontented, uncentered, apocalyptic age. Writing, like Gypsy Rose Lee's stripping, Steinbeck reminds us, is a performance; both are fueled by desire, and they can be nouns as well as verbs.
To aid and abet his novel's satire and literary referentiality, Steinbeck stripped bare a small library of useful works. In the populist echoes and literary parodies, mimicries, puns, word-plays, resonances, and allusions to the Bible, Shakespeare's Twelfth Night, The Little Flowers of Saint Francis, the Welsh Mabinogion, Coleridge's "Kubla Khan," Robert Louis Stevenson's Child's Garden of Verses, and especially Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, as well as his "Jabberwocky" and "The Walrus and the Carpenter" from Through the Looking Glass, and Walt Disney's iconic Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, Sweet Thursday is enriched by Steinbeck's eclectic browsing in these favorite titles. (Consult the notes to this edition for further information.) Perhaps more than anything else, however, Steinbeck's avowed reading of Al Capp's enormously popular, extremely inventive Li'l Abner comic strip, which he and his family followed assiduously in newspapers at home and abroad, propelled Sweet Thursday toward its cultural shape. "Yes, comic strips," he told Sidney Fields in a 1955 interview reprinted in Conversations with John Steinbeck. "I read them avidly. Especially Li'l Abner. Al Capp is a great social satirist. Comic strips might be the real literature of our time. We'll never know what literature is until we're gone. But more people read comic strips than books or anything else."
In 1953, the same time he was working on "Bear Flag," the precursor of Sweet Thursday, Steinbeck introduced Capp's book-length collection, The World of Li'l Abner. Steinbeck did not habitually provide blurbs or introductions to the work of other writers, but when he did, it was for a strong reason. He told Elizabeth Otis on June 17, 1952, that he would "love to do" the introduction, which he was certain he could write "in a very short time because I have thought of [Capp] a lot." As with many of Steinbeck's lesser-known or fugitive items, this brief piece reveals much about his creative bearings, influences, and purposes. Beneath his jaunty, ironic, tongue-in-cheek tone there are numerous revelations that bear directly on Sweet Thursday's zany style and technique. Indeed, Sweet Thursday may be considered Steinbeck's attempt at writing a literary comic book, his conscious attempt "to get into Capp's act."
Steinbeck boasts that Al Capp "may very possibly be the best writer in the world today" and "the best satirist since Laurence Sterne." Like Dante, who redefined the established traditions of literature in his time by writing in Italian rather than in Latin, Capp too is a pioneer, perhaps even a visionary. The literature of the future, Steinbeck asserts, might eventually depart from the "stuffy" adherence to "the written and printed word in poetry, drama, and the novel" and eventually include popular forms of cultural discourse such as the comic book, Capp's metier. Steinbeck asks:
How in the hell do we know what literature is? Well, one of the diagnostics of literature should be, it seems to me, that it is read, that it amuses, moves, instructs, changes and criticizes people. And who in the world does that more than Capp?...Who knows what literature is? The literature of the Cro Magnon is painted on the walls of the caves of Altamira. Who knows but that the literature of the future will be projected on clouds? Our present argument that literature is the written and printed word has no very eternal basis in fact. Such literature has not been with us very long, and there is nothing to indicate that it will continue. If people don't read it, it just isn't going to be literature.
In Capp's ability to "invent" an entire world in Dogpatch, to give it memorable characters, recognizable form, and unique spoken language, he created that quality of aesthetic participation Steinbeck aimed for in all his fictions. The unbridled license to make up in any way that fits the artist's or the medium's immediate, compulsive demands--not those of a critical blueprint--is what Capp and Steinbeck share.
Indeed, Steinbeck's description of the key elements of the Li'l Abner strip can also be applied to Sweet Thursday: the latter's plot has a "fine crazy consistency" of (il)logic; it satirizes the "entrenched nonsense" of blind human striving, respectable middle-class life, and normal male/female courting rituals; it constructs an entire fictive world in the Palace Flop house and its larger domain, Cannery Row itself (where, like in Capp's Dogpatch, realistic outside rules of physics and morality don't necessarily apply); and it also contains suitably exaggerated situations (Capp's Sadie Hawkins Day parallels Steinbeck's accounts of the annual return of monarch butterflies to Pacific Grove and the Great Roque War), as well as characters whose names are distinctive, colorful, and unique (Steinbeck's Whitey No. 1, Whitey No. 2, and Joseph and Mary Rivas; Capp's Hairless Joe and Moonbeam McSwine, for example). Finally, in Hazel's ludicrous run for the United States presidency, we catch Steinbeck's nod to Zoot Suit Yokum's improbable presidential nomination in 1944. Moreover, in its optimistic, life-affirming treatment of the roller-coaster love affair between Doc and Suzy, Steinbeck playfully reflects not only his own relationship with Elaine but also the courtship and marriage of the recalcitrant Li'l Abner and the bountiful Daisy Mae. There are numerous examples of passages, such as the one in chapter 16 in which Mack believes he can heal the psychosomatic diseases of rich women, that not only pay homage to Capp (there are echoes in Mack's proposal of Marryin' Sam's "perspectus" for expensive weddings), but also underscore Steinbeck's own self-mimicking method, his application of Capp's satiric "tweak with equal pressure on all classes, all groups," and his appreciation for the "resounding prose" of Capp's folk dialogue.
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br /> Perhaps more than anything else, however, one scene in particular serves as a special indication of Capp's influence. Sweet Thursday is the only novel by Steinbeck whose chapters are titled. The often parodic or incongruent titles are analogous to Capp's boldfaced commentary and frame headings in his comic strip; the chapters themselves are short and easily comprehended, like cartoon strip panels, which is one of the features Mack called for in his prologue. In chapter 28, "Where Alfred the Sacred River Ran," Steinbeck lampoons Samuel Taylor Coleridge's poem "Kubla Khan" in his title, then describes a wild party and Doc's reaction to it in a way that can best be understood if we imagine ourselves to be reading a comic strip or cartoon (perhaps under the influence of some stimulant or other), blissfully participating in its "preposterous" spatiality. The following scene, a masquerade on the theme of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, suggests the flavor and dimensions of Steinbeck's boundary-breaking recitation:
A fog of unreality like a dream feeling was not in him but all around him. He went inside the Palace and saw the dwarfs and monsters and the preposterous Hazel all lighted by the flickering lanterns. None of it seemed the fabric of sweet reality....
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