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And it never failed that during the dry years the people forgot about the rich years, and during the wet years they lost all memory of the dry years. It was always that way.
John Steinbeck
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John Steinbeck
Age: 66 †
Born: 1902
Born: February 27
Died: 1968
Died: December 20
Author
Novelist
Screenwriter
War Correspondent
Writer
Salinas
California
John Ernst Steinbeck
Jr.
John Ernst Steinbeck
John Ernest Steinbeck
John Ernst Steinbeck Jr
Steinbeck
Memories
Rich
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Years
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Way
Wet
Always
Dry
Never
Failed
People
Memory
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One man was so mad at me that he ended his letter, Beware. You will never get out of this world alive.
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We have to make a mark, even if it's only a scribble.
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The American girl makes a servant of her husband and then finds him contemptible for being a servant
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...to find where you are going, you must know where you are.
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A fallow field is a sin.
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So much there is to see, but our morning eyes describe a different world than do our afternoon eyes, and surely our wearied evening eyes can report only a weary evening world.
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But a man needs company.
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Some men hunger so much for love that they lose everything that is loveable about them.
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Books ain't no good. A guy needs somebody - to be near him. A guy goes nuts if he ain't got nobody.
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There are no ugly questions except those clothed in condescension.
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But whereas a puppy will cringe away or roll on its back, groveling, a little boy may cover his shyness with nonchalance, with bravado, or with secrecy. And once a boy has suffered rejection, he will find rejection even where it does not exist-or, worse, will draw it forth from people simply by expecting it.
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for how can you remember the feel of pleasure or pain or choking emotion? You can remember only that you had them.
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Let's say that when I was a little baby, and all my bones soft and malleable, I was put in a small Episcopal cruciform box and so took my shape. Then, when I broke out of the box, the way a baby chick escapes an egg, is it strange that I had the shape of a cross? Have you ever noticed that chickens are roughly egg-shaped?
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But you can't start over Only a boy can start over You and me Why, we're all that's been
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To the heavens on the wings of a pig.
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The last clear definite function of men—muscles aching to work, minds aching to create beyond the single need—this is man.
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She wasn't happy, but then she wasn't unhappy. She wasn't anything. But I don't believe anyone is a nothing. There has to be something inside, if only to keep the skin from collapsing. This vacant eye, listless hand, this damask cheek dusted like a doughnut with plastic powder, had to have a memory or a dream.
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It must be a hard thing to kill a man you don't know and don't hate.
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Trips to fairly unknown regions should be made twice once to make mistakes and once to correct them.
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There's nothing in the world like that first taste of beer.
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