Steinbeck by John Steinbeck Read Free Book Online Page B

we did not send. Christmas broke us as it was, so that we must live nine days on two dollars and five cents. I think we can do it although the last few of those nine may find us living on rice. That doesn’t matter either. It’s rather amusing. The holidays were pretty exciting. We bought things and arranged them for all of my little nieces and nephews. Then Christmas eve we watched the workings of the god-given attitude, greed. It must be god-given because no other creature except man possesses it. It is our instinct stronger than the sexual and developing only slightly less early than the instinct to eat. The children grabbed things, tore off the papers, and grabbed other things. They squalled if they were not all served at once. And they are not bad as greedy children. They are very normal.
    A letter from Maryon [Sheffield] this morning described a New Year’s party which must have been a counterpart of the one last year. What are you doing? I don’t feel like writing. I’ve been writing all day.
    John

To George Albee
    Pacific Grove
1931
    Dear George:
    Your letter this morning aroused a degree of argumentativeness in me—a good sign that the great depression is about over. It strikes me that the world is not nearly as hostile as you are. You fight it so, George. I think it angers you because it pays so little attention to you.
    Fine artistic things seem always to be done in the face of difficulties, and the rocky soil, which seems to give the finest flower, is contempt. Don’t fool yourself, George, appreciation doesn’t make artists. It ruins them. A man’s best work is done when he is fighting to make himself heard, not when swooning audiences wait for his paragraphs. An elevated train two doors away can have far more to do with a fine book than advance royalties or “an eager printer’s boy waiting in the hall.” If you don’t want to fight them you shouldn’t be writing. One can force attention by making one’s work superb. Only practice can do that.
    Things like this hurt. My sister is staying over night. I say —“I have a new story. I wish you’d listen to it.” She says, “I’d love to.” The story is three weeks of thinking and working. I am proud of it. It makes me laugh because it is so funny. I can hardly read the end because it is so sad. Its characters are my own children. And after supper, my sister walks up town and buys a Saturday Evening Post. I do not read her this story. It is silly. But why should I be angry when she would rather read a story whose value is $3,000 rather than one from my ragged notebook—in first draft and unsaleable. How can I blame her when I wouldn’t like to read my own first drafts if I hadn’t written them? It takes a great expert to judge a story in manuscript. You must remember that before you let your feelings be hurt.
    I think Carolyn would be a good wife. You don’t want your wife to think you a genius. No wife ever could and it would be terrible if she did. I had a mistress once who thought I was. I was young enough to think I was too. I had to leave her in sheer boredom and disgust. It’s too onerous to be a genius.
    John

To George Albee
    Pacific Grove
February 27, 1931
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    Excuse this kind of writing. It is the only kind I am capable of just now. A visit to the dentist this morning has battered my outlook. I meant to answer your last letter before this. In my last letter I had no intention of giving you advice. Advice is not my nature anyway. I blunder terribly, George. I go through life a grazing elephant, knocking down trees I am too stupid to consider formidable. My blindness and unawareness terrify me in the few moments of light. I’m twenty-nine today, and I haven’t thought enough things or done enough things to be that old. This afternoon my parents will drive over to get us and take us to dinner. Dinner at Highland or Del Monte. The check will be