Any thoughts??

[Steven Hunley]

From chapter five The Winter of our Discontent- John Steinbeck

I commissioned my fingers and thought about the attic of the old Hawley house, my house, my attic. It is not a dark and spidery prison for the broken and abandoned. It has windows with small panes so old that the light comes through lavender and the outside is wavery—like a world seen through water. The books stored there are not waiting to be thrown out or given to the Seamen’s Institute. They sit comfortably on their shelves waiting to be
rediscovered. And the chairs, some unfashionable for a time, some rump-sprung, are large and soft. It is not a dusty place either. Housecleaning is
attic-cleaning also, and since it is mostly closed away, dust does not enter. I remember as a child scrambling among the brilliants of books or,
battered with agonies, or in the spectral half-life that requires loneliness, retiring to the attic, to lie curled in a great body-molded chair in the violetlavender
light from the window. There I could study the big adze-squared beams that support the roof—see how they are mortised one into another
and pinned in place with oaken dowels. When it rains from rustling drip to roar on the roof, it is a fine secure place. Then the books, tinted with light,
the picture books of children grown, seeded, and gone; Chatterboxes and the Rollo series; a thousand acts of God—Fire, Flood, Tidal Waves,
Earthquakes—all fully illustrated; the Gustave Doré Hell, with Dante’s squared cantos like bricks between; and the heartbreaking stories of Hans
Christian Andersen, the blood-chilling violence and cruelty of the Grimm Brothers, the Morte d’Arthur of majesty with drawings by Aubrey Beardsley,
a sickly, warped creature, a strange choice to illustrate great, manly Malory.

I remember thinking how wise a man was H. C. Andersen. The king told his secrets down a well, and his secrets were safe. A man who tells
secrets or stories must think of who is hearing or reading, for a story has as many versions as it has readers. Everyone takes what he wants or can
from it and thus changes it to his measure. Some pick out parts and reject the rest, some strain the story through their mesh of prejudice, some
paint it with their own delight. A story must have some points of contact with the reader to make him feel at home in it. Only then can he accept the wonders.

[jayat]

Some fragments are written in a quite poetical way, some of the ones that describe the attic, definitely. There’s a lesson of literature and, what is more, a bit of this long experience taken, this must be true, from him being a prodigal, excellent reader. I think I found this last idea at the very end: “A story must have some points of contact with the reader to make him feel at home in it. Only then can he accept the wonders.” Maybe I’m wrong but, frankly, I find a bit of philosophy in the last sentence, or at least it sounds like so.

Finally and although my competence in English is not too high, I found this reading easy, comfortable. Sentences came to me smoothly, like weaves in shore from a clam sea, as if they followed a quiet, constant beat.

We have got none of the Steinbeck’s books in our public library, but when I can I will manage to obtain one.

[Steven Hunley]

Some fragments are written in a quite poetical way, some of the ones that describe the attic, definitely. There’s a lesson of literature and, what is more, a bit of this long experience taken, this must be true, from him being a prodigal, excellent reader. I think I found this last idea at the very end: “A story must have some points of contact with the reader to make him feel at home in it. Only then can he accept the wonders.” Maybe I’m wrong but, frankly, I find a bit of philosophy in the last sentence, or at least it sounds like so.

Finally and although my competence in English is not too high, I found this reading easy, comfortable. Sentences came to me smoothly, like weaves in shore from a clam sea, as if they followed a quiet, constant beat.

We have got none of the Steinbeck’s books in our public library, but when I can I will manage to obtain one.

Try 'sentences came to me smoothly, like waves in shore from a calm sea, as if they followed a constant beat as regular as the pull of the moon."

Just kidding. But it certainly expresses his love of reading. I think this was the last book he wrote. Not sure, but maybe.

[cafolini]

Steimbeck is one of the least fooled writers of all history. Another one that I know well is Chevkov. Quevedo is worth reading for that and of course, Balthasar Grazian. There are many in that category, but not that many many in comparison.

All you have is time. Time is the only thing you own. ~ Paraphrasing Grazian

Time is the only critic without ambition. ~ Steinbeck

[jayat]

Better indeed, "as regular as the pull of the moon", yes, this image-comparison sounds good.

[Steven Hunley]

Better indeed, "as regular as the pull of the moon", yes, this image-comparison sounds good.

Glad it worked. I was reading The Winter of Our Discontent on the way home from work. It made me miss my bus stop by eight blocks. Thanks John, you made me miss my stop, not very neighborly for a fellow Californian.

[Jack of Hearts]

Dull. He should be showing the reader, not telling. He fails to draw us in. The wordiness is despicable and the plot leaves something to be desired. He should read more and practice writing a little bit every day if he ever wants to get good.







J

[Steven Hunley]

Dull. He should be showing the reader, not telling. He fails to draw us in. The wordiness is despicable and the plot leaves something to be desired. He should read more and practice writing a little bit every day if he ever wants to get good.







J

LMAO! It's too late at night to LMAO! Yeah, he needs to practice up on his penmanship. Take a class or something.