Quote

I have no interest in the printed word. I would continue to write if there were no writing and no print. I put my words down for a matter of memory. They are more made to be spoken than to be read.

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
Read
Printed
Words
Spoken
Write
Print
Matter
Memory
Writing
Continue
Made
Memories
Would
Word
Interest

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It is possible, even probable, to be told a truth about a place, to accept it, to know it and at the same time not to know anything about it.
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Write freely and as rapidly as possible and throw the whole thing on paper. Never correct or rewrite until the whole thing is down. Rewrite in process is usually found to be an excuse for not going on.
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There are as many worlds as there are kinds of days, and as an opal changes its colors and its fire to match the nature of a day, so do I.
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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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Socialism never took root in America because the poor see themselves not as an exploited proletariat but as temporarily embarrassed millionaires.
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Men all do about the same thing when they wake up.
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Misfortune is a fact of nature acceptable to women, especially when it falls on other women.
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Rich, poor, Panhandle, Gulf, city, country, Texas is the obsession, the proper study, and the passionate possession of all Texans.
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Socialism is just another form of religion, and thus delusional.
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Time is more complex near the sea than in any other place, for in addition to the circling of the sun and the turning of the seasons, the waves beat out the passage of time on the rocks and the tides rise and fall as a great clepsydra.
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Doc tips his hat to dogs as he drives by and the dogs look up and smile at him.
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If there is a magic in story writing, and I am convinced there is, no one has ever been able to reduce it to a recipe that can be passed from one person to another.
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You can't slice up morals.
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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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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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You're buying years of work, toil in the sun you're buying a sorrow that can't talk.
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It has always been my private conviction that any man who puts his intelligence up against a fish and loses had it coming.
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And now the forces marshaled around the concept of the group have declared a war of extermination on that preciousness, the mind of man.
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I've done my damndest to rip a reader's nerves to rags, I don't want him satisfied.
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I’m in love with Montana. For other states I have admiration, respect, recognition, even some affection. But with Montana it is love. And it’s difficult to analyze love when you’re in it.
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