East of Eden - Part Four
Chapters 34-55
Welcome to Reading Revisited, a place for friends to enjoy some good old-fashioned book chat while revisiting the truth, beauty, and goodness we’ve found in our favorite books.
Our fourth Wednesday of East of Eden musings, and our fourth and fifth sets of 11 chapters.
You did it. Beautifully done. We completed a 600-page book in one month, and it was stunningly enjoyable. It feels like we’ve accomplished something, and I’m not sure if it’s the condensed timeline, or the epic path we have just journeyed, but I’m feeling good.
(1981 Penguin Classics cover)
Where to begin? And how to finish? Habits help, and so I will approach this final post as we’ve approached the others.
Therefore, first, let’s cover the ground we’ve just walked in Part Four: Adam, Lee, Cal, and Aron move to Salinas, and Lee moves away to start his bookstore. He returns after 6 days because he had “never been so goddam lonesome” in his life. Cal and Aron start school, the former respected but not loved, the latter universally loved. Abra and Aron play house, first as husband and wife, then as mother and son. In 1915 (when the boys are 15) Adam has the idea to ice ship lettuce to New York. Will Hamilton says it’s a bad idea. Adam tries, fails, looses all his money except $9K, and the twins feel his failure deeply. Aron wants to run away, decides he’ll do so by going to college, and also “becomes religious,” telling Abra he’s going to live a life of celibacy. Cal is restless, stays out at night often, finds out about Kate, talks to Lee about it, and feels he’s condemned to be bad. Lee basically says, “Snap out of it. Timshel.” In chapter 39, Cal and Adam have a real conversation (finally!), and later Cal and Cathy converse, and Cal tells her he doesn’t have to be her - timshel. Kate retreats into a grey, lean-to cave, and is afraid that Ethel (a former prostitute of Kate’s house) will reveal that Kate murdered Faye. She sends the house pimp (Joe) to find Ethel. Joe discovers that Ethel has died, but conceals this from Kate. Cal convinces Aron to do extra school work, so he can go to college early and please their father, and then goes to Will Hamilton to figure out a plan to make money to give to Adam. Will Hamilton sees Cal as the son he never had. America enters WWI. Mr. Rolf, the high church Episcopal minister sees Aron as the son he never had. Liza Hamilton dies. Aron goes off to college, and Abra becomes close with the rest of the Trask family, especially Lee, who becomes the father she never had. At Thanksgiving, Aron, who is homesick, returns secretly determined to quit college. Everyone is happy at the Thanksgiving meal, Cal gives Adam the $15,000 he earned on beans with Will Hamilton. Adam refuses the money because he says them money was earned through a type of theft. Cal feels rejected by Adam, burns the money, and shows Kate’s to Aron. Aron enlists the next morning. Kate wills everything to Aron, and commits suicide. Adam enters a state of partial shock and partially loses his sight because of Aron’s enlistment. Cal and Abra fall in love. Aron dies in the first important American maneuver of the war. Adam has a stroke. Cal admits to Adam that he showed Kate’s to Aron, and feels that Adam’s silent eyes condemn him. Lee tells Cal to go to Abra, she brings him home, and all three (Lee, Cal, and Abra) stand at Adam’s bedside, asking for forgiveness for Cal. Adam says, “Timshel,” then, “His eyes closed and he slept.” The End.
Wow. We’ll get to the ending, but first, the beginning, and our preliminary note on narration: Steinbeck begins his final Part, not with a Hamilton storyline, as he did in Part One and Part Three, but with himself, a son of a Hamilton.
A child may ask, “What is the world’s story about?” And a grown man or woman may wonder, “What way will the world go? How does it end and, while we’re at it, what’s the story about?”
I believe that there is one story in the world, and only one, that has frightened and inspired us, so that we live in a Pearl White serial of continuing thought and wonder. Humans are caught - in their lives, in their thoughts, in their hungers and ambitions, in their avarice and cruelty, and in their kindness and generosity too - in a net of good and evil. I think this is the only story we have and that it occurs on all levels of feeling and intelligence. Virtue and vice were warp and woof of our first consciousness, and they will be the fabric of our last, and this despite any changes we may impose on field and river and mountain, on economy and manners. There is no other story. A man, after he has brushed off the dust and chips of his life, will have only the hard, clean questions: Was it good or was it evil? Have I done well - or ill? (Chapter 23, pg 413)
And how do we know if we have done well? We can’t, until we’re dead. Steinbeck finishes the first chapter of his final Part with:
In uncertainty I am certain that underneath their topmost layers of frailty men want to be good and want to be loved. Indeed, most of their vices are attempted short cuts to love. When a man comes to die, no matter what his talents and influence and genius, if he dies unloved his life must be a failure to him and his dying a cold horror. It seems to me that if you or I must choose between two courses of thought or action, we should remember our dying and try so to live that our death brings no pleasure to the world.
We have only one story. (Chapter 23, pg 414-5)
Since first things matter, and set the tone for what follows, this initial chapter must provide us insight into the ending of this Part and this novel. The ending being: “[Adam] closed his eyes and he slept.” If we read this to mean Adam is not dead yet, then the story is not over yet; and we cannot yet decide if his life was good or evil, or therefore if this story was good or evil. Therefore, timshel. But if we consider that on a symbolic level sleep often represents death, and that in the biblical and literary tradition “to sleep” is often synonymous with “to die,” then this is the ending of the story, and therefore we can judge the life of the book as good or evil. And what is our conclusion then? Perhaps, our conclusion is still, timshel. But it’s too early to talk of the ending.
Therefore, for the final time, I will list the things we have been paying attention to:
Time
Biblical Storylines (Samuel as prophet; Adam as first man; Cal and Aron as Cain and Abel)
Broader Biblical Themes (death and resurrection; water; Mark of Cain)
Fatherhood/Motherhood
Names
Evil/Monsterness
Power
Appearance vs. Reality
Fairy Tale & Myth
Again, it would be too much to catalogue all the places where all the archetypal themes play out. Therefore, I will limit myself to a discussion of the above themes within three aspects of Part Four:
The confusion of parentage,
Cathy’s death,
and, the ending.
First, parentage:
In Part Four, who is actually a father or mother to whom because increasingly complex. Characters choose for themselves who their preferred parent or child is, regardless of biology (which also remains fraught). Who is father or mother to Cal and Aron and even Abra, gets all muddled. No one is who they are supposed to be. Or does everyone become who they are supposed to be? And all this confusion of who is whose feels Shakespearean, like A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which means it also feels Fairy Tale-ish. Additionally, Biblically, this question of parentage feels of enormous importance since through the father comes a son’s birthright and the blessing.
Let me lay before us some passages on parentage for Aron, Cal, and Abra.
Looking at Aron first.
When he was 11-years old in the willow tree house:
Abra put out her hand and touched him on the arm. “Don’t you worry about long times,” she said. "This is a kind of house. We can play we live here while we’re waiting. And you will be my husband and I will be your wife.”
…
Aron said suddenly, “While we’re practicing, maybe we could do something else.”
“What?”
“Maybe you won’t like it.” (Chapter 36, pg 424)
And every reader is thinking “uh oh”…but instead Aron says:
“Maybe we could pretend like you’re my mother.”
Say what? Didn’t expect that turn. So Abra pretends she’s his mother, and later, when he is reflecting about whether his father told a lie about his mother’s death, he makes this concrete conclusion:
Aron felt that something had to die - his mother or his world. (Chapter 36, pg 429)
Pause on that reversal: if his mother lives, if the woman who gave him life lives, he must die. Her life, which gave him life, kills him. Knowing what we know about his mother, this effectively sets Aron on a course towards death.
When the twins are 15-years-old, the mother-wife-confusion returns when Aron is facing the financial fall of his father:
“Well, it didn’t work. He sure fixed me. I can’t hold up my head. By God! I hate him.”
Abra said sternly, “Aron! You stop talking like that!”
“How do I know he didn’t lie about my mother?”
Abra’s face reddened with anger. “You ought to be spanked,” she said. “If it wasn’t in front of everybody I’d spank you myself.” (Chapter 37, pg 442)
Aron is a puzzle to me. He’s described as being universally loved, and fully good, but in his treatment of everyone who loves him (Adam, Lee, Cal, Abra), he seems incredibly self-centered.
Mr. Rolf felt that Aron was his product, his spiritual son, his contribution to the church (Chapter 43, pg 489).
The way in which Mr. Rolf and Aron cut everyone out, in their chosen father-son relationship is harsh and cold.
So why is Aron like this? Why is he this way on a psychological level, and why is he this way on a narrative/symbolic level? Honestly, I can’t figure him out when I view him as a real person with a real psychology. What the author says about him (being so good) doesn’t jive with his actions (so selfish). But, when I read him as a type, as some form of an example of a human that doesn’t exist, he begins to grow clearer to me. Would a 100% good person who is missing “something” (sins?) be incapable of being kind to imperfect people?1 Is it our flaws and sufferings that make us capable of love, of timshel? Would a perfectly perfect person (Aron) be as incapable of real connection and love as a perfectly imperfect person (Cathy)?
And back to parentage, Aron’s world collapses when he cannot conceive his father and mother as perfect. When his father “falls,” he can only live if he goes away, but keeps intact the perfect image of a dead mother and a substitute living and perfect mother/wife, Abra. But when his dead mother proves to be alive, and evil, he cannot live. Something had to die, his mother or his world. And when his mother was alive, and his father was a liar, death for Aron followed soon after. Aron rejects his birthright into the human, flawed family. But, now I backtrack (or I begin to “crawfish” as the Louisianians say) and ask, was that a fair sentence to write? He didn’t, after all, commit suicide. He joined the army, and went to fight in a war which purported to be fighting to save a way of life, perhaps an American way of life. A war that was idealistic on the surface, but which underneath was teeming with the problems humanity creates for itself. I think there’s a whole thread of thought here, but I must press on.
Onto our Cal:
Before we get into the depth of Cal and fatherhood, let’s continue this fairy-tale-esque motif of mixed-up parentage and relationships:
Will understood [Cal], felt him, sensed him, recognized him. This was the son he should have had, or the brother, or the father (Chapter 41, pg 480).
So, like Aron’s Mr. Rolf, Cal has a potential father-figure he could latch onto. And for Will, similar to Abra and Aron, he relates to Cal on multiple levels (not just as father, but as son and brother). But Cal does not pursue this path away from his biological (?) father.
Cal was as close to his own soul as it is possible to get.
“My father is good,” he said. “I want to make it up to him because I am not good” (Chapter 41, pg 481).
Cal takes Will Hamilton as a business partner, but remains a son to Adam.
When he was quite small Cal discovered a secret. If he moved very quietly to where his father was sitting and if he leaned very lightly against his father’s knee, Adam’s hand would rise automatically and his fingers would caress Cal’s shoulder. It is probable that Adam did not even know he did it, but the caress brought such a raging flood of emotion to the boy that he saved this special joy and used it only when he needed it. It was a magic to be depended upon. It was a ceremonial symbol of dogged adoration. (Chapter 38, pg 444-5)
Cal’s need for love, and his imperfect attempts at love, are what make me love him. But, let’s continue down the path of Cal’s parents, examining his mother:
And he saw in the set and color of her eyes and hair, even in the way she held her shoulders - high in a kind of semi-shrug - that Aron looked very like her. He did not know his own face well enough to recognize the mouth and little teeth and wide cheekbones as his own. (Chapter 39, pg 461)
With both boys (and with all children ever born), it is abundantly clear who their mother is. Motherhood absolutely cannot be questioned. Fatherhood absolutely can be. What a massive difference. Motherhood is undeniable. Fatherhood is completely deniable, and is only known on the word of the mother. You do not know your father, without your mother.
“I’m Cal Trask,” he said…
She looked at him closely, observed every feature. A dim remembered picture of Charles leaped into her mind. (Chapter 39, pg 462)
And here, the mother seems to make explicit that Charles, not Adam, is the father of Cal. And I held my breath in this moment, waiting for her word to wreck him by saying that Adam was not his father.
She settled back and lifted her cup. “How’s your father?”
“I don’t want to talk about him,” Cal said.
“Oh no! You like him then?”
“I love him,” said Cal.
Kate peered closely at him, and a curious spasm shook her - an aching twist rose in her chest. And then she closed up and her control came back.
“Do you want some candy?” she asked (Chapter 39, pg 464).
But she didn’t say it. Why? And does she actually know what kept her from planting the seed of doubt in Cal?
Back in Part Three, when talking to Adam, she did try to ruin him by this tool:
“Because I remember that you are the mother of my boys. You haven’t asked about them. You are the mother of my sons.”
Kate put her elbows on her knees and cupped her hands under her chin so that her fingers covered her pointed ears. Her eyes were bright with triumph. Her voice was mockingly soft. “A fool always leaves an opening,” she said. “I discovered that when I was a child. I am the mother of your sons. Your sons? I am the mother, yes - but how do you know you are the father?”
…[Kate mentions drugging Adam and sleeping with Charles, he says]…
“It wouldn’t matter - even if it were true,” he said. “It wouldn’t matter at all.” And suddenly he laughed because he knew that this was so. (Chapter 25, pg 324-5).
So I repeat that question: does it matter? Are we too caught up in who our parents are, and less focused on timshel, on taking responsibility for our own actions?2 Lee says:
“Don’t you dare take the lazy way. It’s too easy to excuse yourself because of your ancestry. Don’t let me catch you doing it! Now - look close at me so you will remember. Whatever you do, it will be you who do it - not your mother.”
“Do you believe that, Lee?”
“Yes, I believe it, and you’d better believe it or I’ll break every bone in your body.” (Chapter 38, pg 449)
So, Cal must be his own man, regardless of his mother or his father.
Now, look at this mixed-up fairy-tale motif re-emerging. As the conversation between Cal and Cathy continues, Cathy muddles her son for her husband-through-intercourse, Charles. In response to being called Charles, Cal says,
“My name is Caleb,” Cal said. “Caleb got to the Promised Land. That’s what Lee says, and it’s in the Bible.” (Chapter 39, pg 465)
Cal claims his identity and his story, and instantly Cathy attacks with her old weapon, trying to tether him to his twisted parentage.
“Sure, you’re my kind. Maybe you’re the same. Why wouldn’t you be?” (Chapter 39, pg 465)
And Cal, like Adam, wins. Thou mayest. Timshel.
Cal’s face was alight with excitement, and his eyes were wide with vision.
Kate said, “What’s the matter with you?”
He stood still, his forehead glistening with sweat,3 his hands clenched into fists.
Cathy has only one weapon: reminding people of their twisted-ness. She tries again to claim Cal through his fallen conception:
Kate, as she had always, drove in the smart but senseless knife of her cruelty. She laughed softly. “I may have given you some interesting things, like this - ” She held up her crooked hands. “But if it’s epilepsy - fits - you didn’t get it from me.” She glanced brightly up at him, anticipating the shock and beginning worry in him.
Cal spoke happily. “I’m going,” he said. “I’m going now. It’s all right. What Lee said is true.”
“What did Lee say?”
Cal said, “I was afraid I had you in me.”
“You have,” said Kate.
“No, I haven’t. I’m my own. I don’t have to be you.” [TIMSHEL!!!]
“How do you know that?” she demanded.
Evil is utterly baffled by the goodness in free-will, the choice that really lies open to us, that despite our obvious lusts and flaws and foibles and stupidities and darkness, we really can choose good. Her last ditch attempt to suggest that Cal is Charles’, which is by no means unassailable,4 he doesn’t even hear. To fellow parents out there, how good it is to remind oneself that Cal’s triumph does not occur while Lee is talking to him about owning his own actions (though I’m sure that conversation was the fertile ground from which Cal’s personhood sprung), but it occurs when Cal faces evil. A man must go through trial to become strong, there is no short cut.
And to wrap up the above scene, Cathy’s words have been given no power of identity over Cal. She may be his mother, but he will not let her tell him who his father is. It closes with Cathy croaking like a frog for her house pimp. She is small indeed. And indeed, the next chapter is Ethel’s blackmail, and so begins the demise of Kate. She cannot withstand the freedom of her son’s ability to choose.
Lastly, and quickly, Abra:
Along the lines of timshel and the fairy-tale mixed-up motif, we already discussed her wife-mother relationship with Aron, and we could discuss how she also goes from potential-sister to Cal to potential-wife. But instead, I’ll leave here a scene between Abra and Lee, her chosen father:
She sat down in the kitchen. “Oh, I’m so glad to be back.”
Lee started to speak and choked and then what he wanted to say seemed good to say - to say carefully. He hovered over her. '“You know, I haven’t wished for many things in my life,” he began. “I learned very early not to wish for things. Wishing just brought earned disappointment.”5
Abra said gaily, “But you wish for something now. What is it?”
He blurted out, “I wish you were my daughter -” He was shocked at himself. He went to the stove and turned on the gas under the teakettle, then lighted it again.
She said softly, “I wish you were my father.”
He glanced quickly at her and away. “You do?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
“Because I love you.”
Lee went quickly out of the kitchen. He sat in his room, gripping his hands tightly together until he stopped chocking. He got up and took a small carved ebony box from the top of his bureau…
Lee said, “That was my mother’s only ornament.” (Chapter 53, pg 584)
Lee, practically mother and father to Cal and Aron, receives Abra as his daughter.
Parenthood is as much a relationship of blood, as of choice.6 Adam chooses to be father (despite the mother’s cruel statement to the contrary in Part Three), Lee chooses to be father (despite the obvious difference in race, and therefore blood, to the boys and to Abra), and Cal chooses to be son of Adam (despite Cathy trying to claim him as her’s and Charles’).
Now, changing gears, but keeping the themes flowing, the second aspect of Part Four we will touch on is: Cathy’s Death.
First thoughts on the subject of Cathy, I give to Lee:
“Cal,” he said, “I’ve thought about it for a great many hours and I still don’t know. She is a mystery. It seems to me that she is not like other people. There is something she lacks. Kindness maybe, or conscience. You can only understand people if you feel them in yourself. And I can’t feel her.7 The moment I think about her my feeling goes into darkness. I don’t know what she wanted or what she was after. She was full of hatred, but why or toward what I don’t know. It’s a mystery. And her hatred wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t angry. It was heartless. I don’t know that it is good to talk to you like this.” (Chapter 38, pg 448)
(That last sentence, feels like Steinbeck’s voice coming through to his own sons, for whom he wrote this book.)
Through Lee (a trusted voice) Cathy is reaffirmed as not a full person, thus continuing Steinbeck’s “Theory of Monsters.”
Now, onto her death. In Chapter 50, Cathy commits suicide in her cave. The Alice in Wonderland reference is so forefront, I won’t be able to touch on it here. Instead, I’ll only draw a parallel between her death and the continual diminishing size of Satan in Paradise Lost.
She would take a sip from the bottle and she would grow smaller and smaller. Let her enemies look for her then!
…
She had only to drink the whole bottle and she would dwindle and disappear and cease to exist. And better than all, when she stopped being, she never would have been. (Chapter 50, pg 553)
Here at her death, it keeps being repeated that there’s something she missed, something she lacked. So what has Steinbeck done with the theme of Evil/Monsterness through Cathy?
We’ve begun to touch on this above, when discussing her (potential) opposite, Aron, so I will only follow to the end of this one trail, and that: Predestination. Does Steinbeck push against Predestination with this “theory of monsters chemistry hold?” Was Aron supposed to be read as a pure good character, who could therefore not function in this world, just as pure evil Cathy could not? Is Steinbeck showing us that a fully good or a fully evil character is not a human? And Predestination, by imposing future results onto current lives, makes people either fully good or bad their entire lives, and that this just does not work?
I linger here because I want to know: what is the point of Cathy? Perhaps I am getting distracted by asking how the monster theory interacts with Predestination. So I will just step back, and ask again: What is the point of Cathy? Is he using Cathy to say that a person is a monster if they are not a mixed-bag of possibilities? And that, instead, actual Man is like Cal:
“He’s crammed full to the top with every good thing and every bad thing.” (Chapter 53, pg 585)
I know I’m out of my theological depth here, and that I’m playing with words which have precise meanings and which should be used precisely, but which I am tossing about like a pre-bagged salad. Therefore, I’ll leave it to y’all to sort out the corrections.
Third, and final, aspect of Part Four which we will touch on: the ending.
A mere two pages from the end, Lee tells Cal and Abra what he used to think as regards free-will, sin, virtues and vices, etc.:
“I thought I had inherited both the scars of the fire and the impurities which made the fire necessary - all inherited, I thought. All inherited.” (Chapter 55, 600).
But he overturns this old world, all-is-inherited, one’s-family-is-of-primary-importance thought, with something more new world and American8:
“Maybe you’ll come to know that every man in every generation is refired. Does a craftsman, even in his old age, lose his hunger to make a perfect cup - thin, strong, translucent?” He held up his cup to the light. “All impurities burned out and ready for a glorious flux, and for that - more fire. And either the slag heap or, perhaps what no one in the world ever quite gives up, perfection.” He drained his cup and he said loudly, “Cal, listen to me. Can you think that whatever made us - would stop trying?” (Chapter 55, pg 600)
Yet, this American virtue of independence, of being one’s own man despite one’s fatherhood, does not have the final say. It remains. But it is nuanced with the truth that fatherhood is vital. The novel does not end here, with Lee and Cal and Abra sitting at a table, talking about being one’s own man, apart from Adam. No, instead, Lee then leads them to Adam. They go into the father Cal has chosen through every action of love and vice, because this conversation is necessary too:
Lee said, “Thank you Adam. I know how hard it is. I’m going to ask you to do a much harder thing. Here is your son - Caleb - your only son. Look at him, Adam!” (Chapter 50, 602)
And all of us have the resounding sound of the conclusion of that Genesis sentence in our heads, “Your son, your only son, the one that you love” (emphasis mine, Genesis 22:2).
Lee’s voice cut in, “I don’t know how long you will live, Adam. Maybe a long time. Maybe an hour. But your son will live. He will marry and his children will be the only remnant left of you.”
…
Lee said, “Help him, Adam - help him. Give him his chance. Let him be free. That’s all a man has over the beasts. Free him! Bless him!” (Chapter 55, pg 602).
And look at the blessing Adam, the first father, gives his son: it is the only blessing. It is the blessing our father gives to us: the ability to choose, the chance to freely love, free-will, timshel.
Adam’s breath came quick with his effort and then, slowly, his right hand lifted - lifted an inch and then fell back.
Lee’s face was haggard. He moved to the head of the bed and wiped the sick man’s damp face with the edge of the sheet. He looked down at the closed eyes. Lee whispered, “Thank you, Adam - thank you, my friend. Can you move your lips? Make your lips form his name.”
Adam looked up with sick weariness. His lips parted and failed and tried again. Then his lungs filled. He expelled the air and his lips combed the rushing sigh. His whispered word seemed to hang in the air:
“Timshel!”
His eyes closed and he slept. (emphasis original, Chapter 55, pg 602)
Brilliantly accomplished. A tragedy ends with death. A comedy ends with a wedding (or a feast or a dance). This ending could be read (slightly) either way.
Even if we read this ending as Adam merely being asleep; he’s in a state similar to death, and in a state that has long symbolized death. (Sleep first symbolized death with the first man, Genesis’ Adam, when God put Adam to sleep, and out of his side made woman. The first man willingly laid down his life for the creation of the first woman. Death bringing life. Death bringing forth marriage. You must die to self to gain yourself.) But if we read this ending as Adam’s actual death, his literal last breath (and there’s strong evidence for this, since Lee says he must force Adam to bless Cal even if “it kills him,” and since that first chapter of Part Four says that we do not know the meaning of a man’s life until he is dead), then the last scene of this novel is Adam dying while giving his blessing to Cal, who is standing before his father with Abra and the image of their future children hanging in the air, which is just similar enough to a wedding ceremony to allow me to ask: Is this story a tragedy? Can it be a comedy?9 Is it, perhaps, what you make of it, what you make of the one story, the only story, your story? Timshel.
That’s all I’ll write folks. That’s where I’ll leave us. I wish I could have done better. The only one who could do this novel justice is Steinbeck, and he did it justice by writing it.
And we didn’t even talk about…everything else.10
Final musings on East of Eden will be tomorrow (here’s the schedule), when we’ll look at the structure of the book, money, and some discussion questions:
July 11 - Revisiting the Whole
Until next time, keep revisiting the good books that enrich your life and nourish your soul.
In Case You Missed Previous East of Eden Posts:
In Case You Missed It:
Reading Revisited ep.5: The Remains of the Day with Kelsie Hartley, Hannah Suire, Brittney Hawver, and Jessica Risma
Reading Revisited ep.4: Hannah’s Bookish Bio with Kelsie Hartley and Hannah Suire
A Few Reminders:
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The way Steinbeck (I believe) is presenting Aron as this person who is too-good to relate to others, is obviously completely different than the way Christ, the perfect man, interacted with fellow men. Therefore, it poses this interesting train of thought. I follow Steinbeck’s logic, that a Aron-like-person, who is missing flaws, would find it impossible to connect with flawed people. Aron’s perfect vision of how things should be, would be constantly at odds with the very flawed world he was forced to interact within. So following this logic, it comes as an earth-shattering surprise that Christ’s goodness does not remove Him from being able to understand man, but instead makes Him more connected with man. That Christ, as the perfect man, sat not with men who were as close-to-perfect-as-is-possible-on-this-earth, but exactly the reverse, with tax collectors and sinners, is illogical. Think about the perfect person of Christ, on the outside, through Steinbeck’s eyes, and you begin to see that “it didn’t have to be this way.” Christ didn’t HAVE to be loving to the unlovable. His perfection didn’t HAVE to automatically make him kind towards the imperfect. Indeed, looking at Aron, maybe it would have made more sense if perfect Christ could not stand imperfect men. (Certainly Satan’s logic seems to have thought so.) But this was not so. In this surprising reality of Christ, we find the paradox at the heart of Life that Chesterton talks about in Orthodoxy. God follows a pattern nine times out of ten (i.e. man’s body is symmetrical, left lung and right lung, left ear and right ear, left leg and right leg) and then, on the tenth iteration, boom! surprise (i.e. after so much symmetry, there’s only one heart, and it’s not even centered, it’s lopsidedly placed on the left side). God is incredibly logical, so reasonable, can be approached through “what makes sense.” But also, there’s this crazy, artistic, child-like side to Him, that makes no sense to an adult stuck in adult-ways. He’s absurdly loving, beyond what should reasonably be expected. The true mark of charity is how a person treats others, not in how good they are in themselves - and this did not have to be this way, Christ made it so.
This is a very American line of thought: dismissing one’s parentage as of less importance than one’s personal actions. Independence, for good of for ill, has been called the primary American virtue.
A forehead without a scar.
Cathy references epilepsy, perhaps suggesting it came from Charles. However, and in keeping with the parenthood clues leading multiple directions, two people in this Part take bromide: Cathy (when trying to fall asleep at the end of chapter 40) and Adam (after receiving the news of Aron’s death). Bromide is used to treat epilepsy. Therefore, if anything, this seems like a clue to confirm Adam as father, since Charles died of a “lung ailment” (Chapter 30, pg 371).
Father Mike Schmitz says something similar in his homily for the 1st Sunday of Lent. He says: “Expectations are a killer of joy, a thief of peace, and they rob us of the presence of God.”
In Christian theology, we are God’s “adopted sons.” He has chosen to be our father. The birthright comes to us by His free gift and our free acceptance, not by biological relationship. But then, also, biological parents are most often the ones passing down this birthright to their biological children through Baptism. It’s beautifully both.
Evil is the absence of good, and therefore it is absence itself. Thus, Lee cannot feel her, because there is nothing to feel. She isn’t anything. And in her death, she affirms this. She dies wishing to grow smaller and smaller, so that she ends without ever having been.
I do not use the words “new” and “American” as synonyms for “better” or “right.” I’m also not using the words “new” and “American” as synonyms for “worse” or “wrong.” I’m using the words “new” and “American” to denote a type of thinking that matured in the “New World,” specifically in the US.
Or am I asking the wrong questions? Did Steinbeck reject the Five Act structure because he did not want to fit into a tragic or comedic story arc?
Bonus content! In order to keep this post short, I did not include several sections which I have been including previously (How this book is in conversation with other books & poignant passages) or a section on the mastery of Steinbeck’s writing. I just couldn’t handle giving y’all another “29 minute read.” Ain’t no one got time for that. But, if you do have time for that, follow the link to “bonus content” which I put on my little side substack in order to not over crowd Reading Revisited with too much East of Eden.