and titillate his readers....” See “Faces of ‘The Grapes of Wrath,’ ” Photographs and story by Horace Bristol, photo captions by John Steinbeck, This World (San Francisco Examiner Magazine), October 25, 1987, p. 14, and a glossier portfolio in his “Documenting The Grapes of Wrath,” The Californians, January/February 1988, pp. 40-47. Also consult Carol Shloss, In Visible Light, Photography and the American Writer: 1840-1940 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1987), pp. 201-29, for an intriguing look at Steinbeck’s relatedness to documentary photography, especially Dorothea Lange’s.
16. Letter, December 1950, in the Pascal Covici Archive at Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center, University of Texas, Austin. A stenographer at The Viking Press transcribed Steinbeck’s handwritten journal manuscript, but then destroyed or lost the original holograph version (all efforts to locate it have failed). Although Steinbeck might have reviewed—perhaps even reread—the typed version, he apparently did not make any corrections in it. This present edition (with Steinbeck’s entry numbers normalized) provides an unexcised readable text of the typed journal. Annotations and explanatory notes (indicated by asterisks in the text) appear at the end of the book where they will not impede the narrative flow of Steinbeck’s entries. Grammatical/spelling regularizations have been kept to a silent minimum, a pleasurable result of having a substantially clear and intelligible typescript to work with in the first place.
“’You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.’ ”
The Eagles, “Hotel California”
PART I:
Prelude
(February 1938)
For the moment now the financial burdens have been removed. But it is not permanent. I was not made for success. I find myself now with a growing reputation. In many ways it is a terrible thing.... Among other things I feel that I have put something over. That this little success of mine is cheating.
—Steinbeck, in a 1936 entry in his Long Valley/Of Mice and Men ledger book. (Courtesy of Steinbeck Research Center, San Jose State University)
Commentary
Steinbeck composed his first journal entry on or about February 7, 1938, shortly after the death of his brother-in-law, and just prior to at least two separate field trips (in February, and again in early March) to observe the horrid conditions at Visalia. He had recently abandoned “The Oklahomans” and in its place had begun “L’Affaire Lettuceberg,” an incendiary tract that occupied his attention until May 1938, when—in disgust at having compromised his own ability—he destroyed the 70,000-word manuscript.
The winter of 1938 was a period of intense activity and vexation for Steinbeck. In January and February California was being inundated by torrential rains (“This is the 19th day of rain,” Steinbeck wrote Elizabeth Otis, his literary agent and confidante, on February 14); the deluge provided a symbolic backdrop for Steinbeck’s pessimism. He would be thirty-six years old on February 27, but he hardly felt like celebrating. His growing sense of anger about the plight of Visalia’s starving migrants colored nearly everything in his life, including, temporarily, his will to write. “Funny how mean and little books become in the face of such tragedies,” he confessed to his agent. As if that weren’t enough to undercut his emotional equilibrium, several other personal disturbances occurred in February, including a trumped-up paternity charge (which was eventually dropped), and the dissolution of an intimate friendship with George Albee, a fellow novelist who had become jealous of Steinbeck’s artistic achievements. “I’ve needed help and trust and the benefit of the doubt,” Steinbeck told Albee in his characteristically frank way, “because I’ve tried to beat the system which destroys every writer, and from you have come only wounds and kicks in the face” (Steinbeck and Wallsten,
16. Letter, December 1950, in the Pascal Covici Archive at Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center, University of Texas, Austin. A stenographer at The Viking Press transcribed Steinbeck’s handwritten journal manuscript, but then destroyed or lost the original holograph version (all efforts to locate it have failed). Although Steinbeck might have reviewed—perhaps even reread—the typed version, he apparently did not make any corrections in it. This present edition (with Steinbeck’s entry numbers normalized) provides an unexcised readable text of the typed journal. Annotations and explanatory notes (indicated by asterisks in the text) appear at the end of the book where they will not impede the narrative flow of Steinbeck’s entries. Grammatical/spelling regularizations have been kept to a silent minimum, a pleasurable result of having a substantially clear and intelligible typescript to work with in the first place.
“’You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.’ ”
The Eagles, “Hotel California”
PART I:
Prelude
(February 1938)
For the moment now the financial burdens have been removed. But it is not permanent. I was not made for success. I find myself now with a growing reputation. In many ways it is a terrible thing.... Among other things I feel that I have put something over. That this little success of mine is cheating.
—Steinbeck, in a 1936 entry in his Long Valley/Of Mice and Men ledger book. (Courtesy of Steinbeck Research Center, San Jose State University)
Commentary
Steinbeck composed his first journal entry on or about February 7, 1938, shortly after the death of his brother-in-law, and just prior to at least two separate field trips (in February, and again in early March) to observe the horrid conditions at Visalia. He had recently abandoned “The Oklahomans” and in its place had begun “L’Affaire Lettuceberg,” an incendiary tract that occupied his attention until May 1938, when—in disgust at having compromised his own ability—he destroyed the 70,000-word manuscript.
The winter of 1938 was a period of intense activity and vexation for Steinbeck. In January and February California was being inundated by torrential rains (“This is the 19th day of rain,” Steinbeck wrote Elizabeth Otis, his literary agent and confidante, on February 14); the deluge provided a symbolic backdrop for Steinbeck’s pessimism. He would be thirty-six years old on February 27, but he hardly felt like celebrating. His growing sense of anger about the plight of Visalia’s starving migrants colored nearly everything in his life, including, temporarily, his will to write. “Funny how mean and little books become in the face of such tragedies,” he confessed to his agent. As if that weren’t enough to undercut his emotional equilibrium, several other personal disturbances occurred in February, including a trumped-up paternity charge (which was eventually dropped), and the dissolution of an intimate friendship with George Albee, a fellow novelist who had become jealous of Steinbeck’s artistic achievements. “I’ve needed help and trust and the benefit of the doubt,” Steinbeck told Albee in his characteristically frank way, “because I’ve tried to beat the system which destroys every writer, and from you have come only wounds and kicks in the face” (Steinbeck and Wallsten,
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