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Authors: John Steinbeck
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eds., Steinbeck: A Life in Letters, p. 157).
Privately, Steinbeck was contending with the ironic fruits of his public success. Deeper yet, he struggled with the paralyzing fear that his talent was inadequate for the writing task at hand. His success had been honorably earned, but Steinbeck, ever his own harshest critic, remained unconvinced. In fact, self-denunciation became a repeated theme throughout the entire journal. His brilliant novella, Of Mice and Men, published by Covici-Friede a year earlier, had sold well over 120,000 copies, thanks in part to its being a Book-of-the-Month Club selection. More immediately, the play version (directed by George S. Kauf man, and starring Wallace Ford, Broderick Crawford, and Clare Luce), which had opened at New York’s Music Box Theatre on November 23, 1937, was still packing the house three months later. It eventually ran for 207 performances and won, that April, the prestigious New York Drama Circle Critics’ Award. In addition, Pare Lorentz, whom Steinbeck had been expecting in Los Gatos since January (he finally showed up around February 13), wanted to discuss filming In Dubious Battle. And later in the month both Fortune and Life magazines wanted Steinbeck to write essays on migrant conditions. His name had suddenly become a hot property, with all the attendant traps, seductions, and demands that accompany rapid fame. (As bad as things seemed in the winter of 1938, they were only a minor rehearsal for the turbulent drama to come during the next few years.) A month or so before his opening journal entry, Steinbeck complained to Joseph and Charlotte Jackson:
I get sadder and sadder. The requests and demands for money pour in. It is perfectly awful. WPA worker in pencil from Illinois—“you have got luck and I got no luck. My boy needs a hundderd dollar operation. Please send a hundderd dollars. I will pay it back.” That sort of thing. Getting worse every day.... Someone told a Salinas ladies’ club that I had made three hundred thousand dollars this year. That’s the sort of thing. It is driving me crazy. “If you will just send me a railroad ticket to Boise I can come to California and get rid of my rheumatism.” They’re nightmarish. Some may be phonys but so damned many of them aren’t.... The damned things haunt me. There’s no way of getting over the truth . . . that we have very little money.... Its nibbling me to death (Steinbeck and Wallsten, eds., Steinbeck: A Life in Letters, p. 153).
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
Privately, Steinbeck was contending with the ironic fruits of his public success. Deeper yet, he struggled with the paralyzing fear that his talent was inadequate for the writing task at hand. His success had been honorably earned, but Steinbeck, ever his own harshest critic, remained unconvinced. In fact, self-denunciation became a repeated theme throughout the entire journal. His brilliant novella, Of Mice and Men, published by Covici-Friede a year earlier, had sold well over 120,000 copies, thanks in part to its being a Book-of-the-Month Club selection. More immediately, the play version (directed by George S. Kauf man, and starring Wallace Ford, Broderick Crawford, and Clare Luce), which had opened at New York’s Music Box Theatre on November 23, 1937, was still packing the house three months later. It eventually ran for 207 performances and won, that April, the prestigious New York Drama Circle Critics’ Award. In addition, Pare Lorentz, whom Steinbeck had been expecting in Los Gatos since January (he finally showed up around February 13), wanted to discuss filming In Dubious Battle. And later in the month both Fortune and Life magazines wanted Steinbeck to write essays on migrant conditions. His name had suddenly become a hot property, with all the attendant traps, seductions, and demands that accompany rapid fame. (As bad as things seemed in the winter of 1938, they were only a minor rehearsal for the turbulent drama to come during the next few years.) A month or so before his opening journal entry, Steinbeck complained to Joseph and Charlotte Jackson:
I get sadder and sadder. The requests and demands for money pour in. It is perfectly awful. WPA worker in pencil from Illinois—“you have got luck and I got no luck. My boy needs a hundderd dollar operation. Please send a hundderd dollars. I will pay it back.” That sort of thing. Getting worse every day.... Someone told a Salinas ladies’ club that I had made three hundred thousand dollars this year. That’s the sort of thing. It is driving me crazy. “If you will just send me a railroad ticket to Boise I can come to California and get rid of my rheumatism.” They’re nightmarish. Some may be phonys but so damned many of them aren’t.... The damned things haunt me. There’s no way of getting over the truth . . . that we have very little money.... Its nibbling me to death (Steinbeck and Wallsten, eds., Steinbeck: A Life in Letters, p. 153).
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
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