Steinbeck’s my companion again on walks to and from work. I’m halfway through Grapes of Wrath, and while the story of the Joad family is bleak and their futures seem grim, I’m impressed at how well he shows gestation and birth.
Birth of what, I’m not sure yet. I’d say “an idea,” but the budding class consciousness of Steinbeck’s wrung-out midwestern farmers isn’t an idea so much as a conviction born of deep compassion. Casey, the preacher who tags along with the Joads, gropes toward giving voice to this conviction, and hasn’t quite gotten there yet, though each time he speaks he draws nearer. The conviction swells like bubbles rising from a diver’s mouth as the Joads drive deeper into darkness.
Lately I’ve felt something growing inside me, too. Maybe this is just an echo of Steinbeck’s characters’ journey, filtered through my own dreams. Maybe it’s something more. The thing will come in its own time. I can’t hurry it. This incipience scares me, though.