It's late and I should really go to bed but I can't put this book down.
Isobel's asleep next to me, so I'm propped up toward the lamp on my nightstand. I'm lying on my side, cradling East of Eden in one hand. At least, until I finish the page. Then I have to hold it with the other one.
I haven't even made it far into the story yet. It took a couple chapters before I found the rhythm of John Steinbeck's writing. Now that I'm thinking about it, I don't know that I've read anything of his since we covered Of Mice and Men in high school. Sure, some of the language is different. Some of the social norms have aged quite repugnantly, too. In that case, yes; the differences between then and now are glaring.
BUT.
East of Eden was originally published in 1952. As I'm laying there ignoring the clock, focused on reading and hoping the still-lit lamp doesn't wake Isobel up, I can feel my eyes bulging and my jaw slackening.
There, right there on the page:
1952!!
That's a ton of the same shit we're dealing with today. It's all just got different clothes on. But underneath? My god—humans are humans no matter what, huh?
Has anything from another time period made you realize how unshakably human we are? What was it?
onward.
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