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I've done my damndest to rip a reader's nerves to rags, I don't want him satisfied.
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
Rags
Nerves
Satisfied
Reader
Done
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More quotes by John Steinbeck
Everyone I have ever known very well has been concerned that I would eventually starve. Probably I shall. It isn't important enough to me to be an obsession.
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All great and precious things are lonely.
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Money is not nice. Money got no friends but more money.
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There's a responsibility in being a person. It's more than just taking up space where air would be.
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There's an awful lot of inactive kindness which is nothing but laziness, not wanting any trouble, confusion, or effort.
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Death was a friend, and sleep was Death's brother.
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Why do men like me want sons? he wondered. It must be because they hope in their poor beaten souls that these new men, who are their blood, will do the things they were not strong enough nor wise enough nor brave enough to do. It is rather like another chance at life like a new bag of coins at a table of luck after your fortune is gone.
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Unless a reviewer has the courage to give you unqualified praise, I say ignore the bastard.
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How can the poem and the stink and the grating noise - the quality of light, the tone, the habit and the dream - be set down alive?
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Sometimes a man wants to be stupid if it lets him do a thing his cleverness forbids.
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Abandon the idea that you are ever going to finish.
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I know this... a man got to do what he got to do.
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In the souls of the people the grapes of wrath are filling and growing heavy, growing heavy for the vintage.
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Where does discontent start? You are warm enough, but you shiver. You are fed, yet hunger gnaws you. You have been loved, but your yearning wanders in new fields. And to prod all these there's time, the Bastard Time.
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I have wondered why is it that some people are less affected and torn by the verities of life and death that others.
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Give a critic an inch, he'll write a play.
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There is one thing pleasantly unconfusing about medicine. The direction and the end are fixed and the patient never works backward.
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... every little boy thinks he invented sin.
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You can't go home again because home has ceased to exist except in the mothballs of memory.
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My wants are simple. I have no desire to latch onto a monster symbol of fate and power and prove my manhood in titanic piscine war. But sometimes I do like a couple of cooperative fish of frying size.
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