Cannery Row
Beautifully written and virtually plotless, 'Cannery Row' was an excellent car-read to while away the long trip to Maine.
Unlike other notable books by Steinbeck the hopelessness here is not overwhelming and the anger is not present. People abide. Or they don't. More than one case is given of someone giving in to hopelessness, but Steinbeck doesn't dwell, so people go on.
My copy is a first edition that's been around the block. It lacks a jacket and at some point the front-cover was a resting place for a large mug. The yellow boards are chipped and uniformly covered in working grime as if this was read between stints swapping out Model-T carburetors. And yet the binding is tightly in place and the browned and water-stained pages are clearly printed, if occasionally creased. The book abides.
Mack and the crew at the Palace Flophouse are prototypical Lebowskis, taking it easy and only doing what's necessary to ensure some comfort. They cause some damage along the way, their well-meaning acts often backfire, but I have to grudgingly admire them.
The natural writing here, descriptions of the tidal beds, the frogs, and a lone groundhog, is fantastic and blends in perfectly with scenes featuring eccentric personalities of the area, including a housewife who holds kitty tea-parties and awe-inspiring Chinese fishermen. All-around lovely.
Next: 'Sweet Thursday'
