Sunday literary supplement
Anyhow, from Grapes of Wrath I moved onto East of Eden, some other masterpiece.
From there the rest of Steinbeck's life work filled my nightstand and overflowed onto the floor. I spent the next year-and-a-half reading everything the man ever wrote. I seemed to have stumbled upon a mid-life literary project and I finished his last book, Travels with Charlie over the summer. I feel like I know the man John Steinbeck as much as I know his work now. That feels good.
A highlight of that entire workout become taking Once There Was A War with me to Italy last spring. John Steinbeck was a struggle correspondent during World War II and he observed The Allies' invasion of Italy. To read about his experiences at the Isle of Capri whilst I became truly on the Isle of Capri still makes the hair on my fingers get up. I made it a point to are looking for out the locations along the Bay of Naples and the Amalfi Coast he mentioned. There aren't any markers but Steinbeck did a terrific process of describing in which he changed into and it turned into pretty, pretty cool to retrace the direction of one of the finest literary minds this u . S . A .'s ever produced.
I took this photo from the balcony of the inn wherein Steinbeck and a group of soldiers were housed on Capri in 1943.
Anyhow, finishing up his work left a pretty big hole and I've been searching for a new literary pursuit. I think I found it in Sinclair Lewis' Babbitt, from 1922. Despite my previous incarnation as an English Major, I'd never read it before. I'm glad I picked it up. In an election season where passions are running high and the economy's tanking, it's interesting to read a novel set in 1920 when there was an election approaching, passions were running high and the economy was tanking. Babbitt could have been written yesterday. George Will from the Washington Post mentioned Babbitt in one of his columns a couple of weeks ago and I bought the book based on his column. I don't find myself agreeing with Mr. Will very often, but I always respect his mind. At least so far as reading material goes, Mr. Will knows what he's talking about.
Lewis introduces his archetypal main man or woman on the primary page:
His name changed into George F. Babbitt. He was 40-six years old now, in April, 1920, and he made not anything in particular, neither butter nor shoes nor poetry, however he turned into nimble in the calling of promoting houses for extra than humans could manage to pay for to pay.Like I said, it could have been written yesterday. So it looks like I'm on a Sinclair Lewis kick 'til further notice. Next up? Elmer Gantry of course.