“Two gallons is a great deal of wine, even for two paisanos. Spiritually the jugs maybe graduated thus: Just below the shoulder of the first bottle, serious and concentrated conversation. Two inches farther down, sweetly sad memory. Three inches more, thoughts of old and satisfactory loves. An inch, thoughts of bitter loves. Bottom of the first jug, general and undirected sadness. Shoulder of the second jug, black, unholy despondency. Two fingers down, a song of death or longing. A thumb, every other song each one knows. The graduations stop here, for the trail splits and there is no certainty. From this point anything can happen.”
“Pilon complained, "It is not a good story. There are too many meanings and too many lessons in it. Some of those lessons are opposite. There is not a story to take into your head. It proves nothing."
"I like it," said Pablo. "I like it because it hasn't any meaning you can see, and still it does seem to mean something, I can't tell what.”
My friend George called to say he had discovered his musty copy of this and Cannery Row in a cardboard box and sat right down to read it. He encouraged me to do the same. Now, did. I have also recently reread Of Mice and Men, a work I much love, and thought it would be good to re-read a few of his central (socialist) books about human solidarity (Cannery Row, Sweet Thursday, Of Mice and Men, Grapes of Wrath), because: Still, The Planet. These books focus on communitarian ideals versus the rugged individualist spirit of thousands of American books (I just happen to be thinking of Hemingway in The Sun Also Rises, or even Sherwood Anderson’s Winesburg, Ohio, all these isolated, alienated people). The importance of interdependence is central in Steinbeck.
Tortilla Flat is an early, short Steinbeck, seventeen vignettes, a kind of picaresque comic adventure story, a pretty romanticized depiction of a group of paisanos (mixed race) in the poor area of Monterey (CA), seen through a (King) Arthurian framework. Danny is Arthur and the Roundtable of Knights he cobbles together are a bunch of lovely underclass, rag-tag misfits who drink a lot, but also do Good Deeds (for Teresina, a single mom of 9 who has no food; for another who made a pledge to buy a golden candlestick for the church because he had prayed and his dog miraculously survived: A miracle. They save quarters til they can buy it).
“They did not awaken quickly, nor fling about nor shock their systems with any sudden movement. No, they arose from slumber as gently as a soap bubble floats out from its pipe. Down into the gulch they trudged, still only half awake. Gradually their wills coagulated. They built a fire and boiled some tea and drank it from the fruit jars, and at last they settled in the sun on the front porch. The flaming flies made halos about their heads. Life took shape about them, the shape of yesterday and of tomorrow. Discussion began slowly, for each man treasured the little sleep he still possessed. From this time until well after noon, intellectual comradeship came into being. This was one of the best of times for the friends of Danny. Anyone having a good thing to tell saved it for recounting at this time. The big brown butterflies came to the rose and sat on the flowers and waved their wings slowly, as though they pumped honey out by wing power.”
You see there the solidarity of the poor, who don’t have jobs, or work when they can, and find ways to eat and drink wine. It’s a sweet, sentimental book honoring as he always did, the down-and-out, as did Orwell (Down and Out in London). A bit of Rabelais, too, as in making fun of the rich? Funny, warmly so, in many places. It relies too heavily on the Arthurian frame, and is an early book, but I really loved reading it, again. Maybe it presages a bit of On the Road romanticism, too. A book out of the Depression, a book of the times. And a book of solidarity with nature, too, a mystical healing force:
“Now Pilon knew it for a perfect night. A high fog covered the sky, and behind it, the moon shone so so that the forest was filled with a gauze-like light. There was none of the sharp outline we think of as reality. The tree trunks were not black columns of wood, but soft and unsubstantial shadows. The patches of brush were formless and shifting in the queer light. Ghosts could walk freely to-night, without fear of the disbelief of men; for this night was haunted, and it would be an insensitive man who did not know it.”