Steinbeck by John Steinbeck Read Free Book Online Page A

work.
    Modern sanity and religion are a curious delusion. Yesterday I went out in a fishing boat—out in the ocean. By looking over the side into the blue water, I could quite easily see the shell of the turtle who supports the world. I am getting more prone to madness. What a ridiculous letter this is; full of vaguenesses and unrealities. I for one arid you to some extent have a great many of the basic impulses of an African witch doctor.
    You know the big pine tree beside this house? I planted it when it and I were very little; I’ve watched it grow. It has always been known as “John’s tree.” Years ago, in mental playfulness I used to think of it as my brother and then later, still playfully, I thought of it as something rather closer, a kind of repository of my destiny. This was all an amusing fancy, mind you. Now the lower limbs should be cut off because they endanger the house. I must cut them soon, and I have a very powerful reluctance to do it, such a reluctance as I would have toward cutting live flesh. Furthermore if the tree should die, I am pretty sure I should be ill. This feeling I have planted in myself,and quite deliberately I guess, but it is none the less strong for all that.
    I shall stop before you consider me quite mad.
    Sincerely,
John

To Amasa Miller
    Pacific Grove
[December 1930]
    Dear Ted:
    I think the manuscript [“Murder at Full Moon”] enclosed in this package is self explanatory. For some time now, I have been unhappy. The reason is that I have a debt and it is making me miserable.
    It is quite obvious that people do not want to buy the things I have been writing. Therefore, to make the money I need, I must write the things they want to read. In other words, I must sacrifice artistic integrity for a little while to personal integrity. Remember that when this manuscript makes you sick. And remember that it makes me a great deal sicker than it does you.
    Conrad said that only two things sold, the very best and the very worst. From my recent efforts, it has been borne to me that I am not capable of writing the very best yet. I have no doubt that I shall be able to in the future, but at present, I cannot. It remains to be seen whether I can write the very worst.
    I will tell you a little bit about the enclosed ms. It was written complete in nine days. It is about sixty two or three thousand words long. It took two weeks to type. In it I have included all the cheap rackets I know of, and have tried to make it stand up by giving it a slightly burlesque tone. No one but my wife and my folks know that I have written it, and no one except you will know. I see no reason why a nom de plume should not be respected and maintained. The nom de plume I have chosen is Peter Pym.
    The story holds water better than most, and I think it has a fairish amount of mystery. The burlesqued bits, which were put in mostly to keep my stomach from turning every time I sat down at the typewriter, may come out.
    Don’t let it make you too sick. It only took nine days to write and it didn’t have any effect on me whatever. I feel very badly about it, but I won’t be very happy anyway unless this debt is paid. It isn’t a large debt but it is worrying me.
    Carol and another girl, both of wide experience, are opening a small publicity and advertising agency on the peninsula. Come west soon and be their attorney.
    Let me hear from you when you can. And if you don’t get either card or present from me this Christmas, you will know that I am broke. I so warn you in advance. And I hope you have a good drunken Christmas.
    affectionately
John
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    While living in Eagle Rock, the Steinbecks had met another young writer, George Albee, with whom they exchanged frequent letters when they moved north.

To George Albee
    Pacific Grove
January 1931
    Dear George:
    I don’t remember whether or not I have written since Christmas. It doesn’t matter. We got your note. Thank you! Cards