East of Eden - John Steinbeck

So I know it's actually been a fat minute since I've posted on here but I've decided I might start sporadically uploading book reviews again. It most definitely will not be at the same level as the past decade but I do want to share my thoughts on books I either really loved or really hated. Everything in between will still have a sentence or two on my Goodreads, but otherwise will probably not warrant a full length review.

Well, anyways, I finished East of Eden last month and that's definitely a book I loved. I wanted to share my thoughts here because I posted it on my Substack but feel it deserves all the love on every platform. As you will see, my review structure has changed markedly since last posting on here, but I hope everyone will bear with me. Also, if you care at all, you will subscribe to my Substack instead of reading on here, because that's where the brunt of my writing is shared these days.

Anyways, here goes nothing.

Today, I wanted to sit down and contemplate what this book meant to me. As is the commonly accepted opinion, this novel is completely and utterly life-changing. It’s perhaps not the most thrilling read, but something about the prose and the story’s slow unfolding flew by and before I knew it, all 600 pages had been devoured. I didn’t know what to feel as I closed the back cover on this behemoth of a novel, considered one of the best American stories ever told. The only other Steinbeck I’ve ever read was Of Mice and Men four whole years ago, which I also fell in love with. I’ve never had any inclination to read The Grapes of Wrath, especially after seeing the play version at my local town theater at some point, but East of Eden has been on my TBR for quite a while.

Why East of Eden?

When I embarked on this journey earlier this year with the ambitious goal to read five books on my journey to becoming “disgustingly well-read,” I struggled over which novels to choose. I have a litany of pieces I want to get into and absorb and analyze and love, but this book in particular has always caught my eye for its general acclaim and stunning overabundance of “clippable quotes” as I call them. It’s an East of Eden summer, as they’re saying over on social media, since the Netflix adaptation is coming soon. The unspoken universal book club that I’ve joined via the online world further spurred me to pick this up and get through it before the show comes out, so that I might be prepared to accurately critique or compliment such an adaptation alongside the rest of America (and the world).

I generally stay away from American literature. The closest I’ve gotten has been Edith Wharton, and I’ve never read what I would consider a “Great American Novel.” You know, those (white) (male) authors who sit down behind a formidable desk with a pen in hand and a desire to become the Next Great Thing in the canon of U.S. prose. That’s not my style at all; my general love of classic literature comes in the form of (non-American) (female) authors who write about love, adventure, marriage, and societal norms. Think Jane Austen or the Brontës (because yes, I am exactly that type of girl).

This book, on the other hand, is anything but. It’s an epic multi-generational story about family strife and the balance between good and evil. It’s a retelling of the classic Book of Genesis but in an American setting. Reading about California from the perspective of someone who deeply loves the state and the land and the people was quite intriguing for me. I have been quite vocal about my general distaste for the part of California where I’m from and my experience growing up in arguably the most toxic part of the state. I had a brilliant time seeing the world of Salinas (and bits and pieces of other American cities and landmarks) through Steinbeck’s eyes, shifting my perspective on the general features and attractions of the land and the culture. It’s a Great American Novel by definition, but somehow, everything about this landed with me in the way that it ordinarily would not if it were any other story. It’s truly an epic, and something I will remember for the rest of my life.

Characterization and Steinbeck

Steinbeck is arguably most known for his character building and his ability to create people who seem and feel real. Their tensions, their dynamics, their interrelated stories, their problems, their romances, all of it is perfectly portrayed in this novel (and in Of Mice and Men, adding to my assumption that this is a Steinbeck “thing”). At first, I was a bit put off by the characterization introduced back to back in this story. It felt like each chapter was just throwing some new man at me (with some scant descriptions of their wives and daughters) and I was afraid it would get confusing in that Dickens style of introducing too many people. However, once you get the gist of the main people, it all comes together and stands out as an incredibly diverse and intriguing cast of characters, each with their own quirks and foibles that make them feel like people standing right next to you.

No one felt like a caricature, which is something I always look for in male-written classic literature. I oftentimes see the Dickens-style stereotyping in books such as these, with specific traits “happening” to befall the character from a certain community or background. (I don’t know why I’m hating on Dickens so much; I rather love the man’s novels). Yes, there are moments I’d consider problematic by modern terms in this book, but I never felt like there were moments where he created villains as a result of their race or gender or sexuality (think Oliver Twist’s Fagin). Instead, everyone is fleshed out into a dynamic and textured character, with weaknesses and biases and flaws written as observations of human nature rather than as symbols meant to represent certain entire communities.

It’s very important to recognize that this story is being told by someone a couple of generations later who I would argue is unreliable if not biased. We don’t get many details about this narrator, but it does make you question the accuracy of the character descriptions of the “villains” of the story, with particular interest in Cathy. I know that’s what the Netflix show wants to focus on in their decision to elevate her to the protagonist, so I won’t go into that until I watch the show and see how they chose to spin the story.

I won’t bore you all with a tiresome character overview of everyone in this story (just read the book yourself). Instead, I wanted to focus on a few who stood out to me, and moments in the writing itself that made me question everything I had read up to that point.

I’m a Cal Trask defender and I’m proud

I love Cal Trask and I can spend hours defending this statement. Matter of fact, if I could go back to college and write a thesis for my Comparative Literature major, Cal Trask is a strong contender for a main focus. He is the second of the “Cains” in the classic Cain and Abel story this entire novel rests on, but Steinbeck perhaps unknowingly makes him the fan favorite (or at least this fan’s favorite). He’s gorgeously written, flawed and yet somehow incredibly lovable in a way. Names hold an incredible amount of power and the decision to name the “dark” twin (in terms of good and evil, not race or skin tone) as the Cain character was just setting him up for a bad future no matter what.

“'Dear Lord,' he said. “Let me be like Aron. Don’t make me mean. I don’t want to be. If you will let everybody like me, why, I’ll give you anything in the world, and if I haven’t got it, why, I’ll go for to get it. I don’t want to be mean. I don’t want to be lonely. For Jesus’ sake, Amen.'”

Aron never stood out to me as anything but a poor boy forced to live up to everyone’s expectations of being the “good one.” I would argue it’s what made him pursue his religious path so intensely and why he felt so emasculated in his relationship with Abra. I tired of Aron very quickly, just as I do with “too nice” people in real life (sorry not sorry!). He needed some grit, some spark, some cruelty to make him feel like someone worth caring about. Cal, on the other hand, never had that expectation of greatness set on him, a fact which ultimately mentally destroys him in an entirely different manner.

Perhaps it’s because I see myself in Cal, but I will defend that boy until I die. It’s impossible to be perfectly good, hence Aron’s story (which I will not spoil), and Cal is a perfect example of the internal struggle of morality and good vs. evil. People who are “too nice” have always rubbed me the wrong way. It’s uncanny and almost fake in a way. Cal felt the most human and the most misunderstood. Sure, he made some bad decisions, but haven’t we all?

Interestingly, I didn’t like Charles at all, who is Cal’s most obvious character foil. Despite their parallels and obvious similarities, something about the way Steinbeck writes each character allows for enough differentiation to give audiences a different view of the Cain figure and the ways you can turn out as a result of nature vs. nurture. Sure, they have similar vibes, but Charles pissed me the fuck off. The inversion of the Cain/Abel story and the ability to make you as a reader root for the Cain character in the end is just one testament to Steinbeck’s literary mastery. It might have been Charles’s lack of remorse that made me so angry, though that is perhaps a faulty narrator issue.

Lee, our faithful moral compass

I loved Lee with my entire heart and soul. Perhaps it’s because of my Chinese American background and my sense of shared familial history with Lee’s story, but his character is perfect. The code switching offers so much to the readers without even having to say too much at all, and the presence of someone who doesn’t fit in with society but is integral to the inner family workings was beautiful to read about. The moral compass of the novel, this elevation of a person of color to such an essential role has many implications that I won’t get into but that I kept in mind every time he came up.

The line about the tea with sugar made me laugh (perhaps one of the few times I laughed in this reading experience). Sugar in green tea is blasphemy.

Yes, there are obvious racist connotations that are inherently unforgivable. You might be able to give Steinbeck a pass if this was written in an earlier decade, but it was 1952, and he’d spent years writing this (and the times kept on changing). There are many points where both the Asian and Black characters could have been written with a much more cautious and perhaps respectful tone. I am not forgiving him for any of this or letting it slide. Prejudice from a different time period might be “understandable” but not necessarily something to look past. You can recognize the problematic aspects of something while still admiring its art and surface value.

Cathy was the most unsettling villain

From her first introduction down to the rest of the book, Cathy’s character was the most unsettling and disturbing villain I’ve ever read about. I’ve read countless fantasies with actual monsters as the main antagonists but they don’t hold a candle to the maliciousness and cruelty that is Cathy. Her first chapter made me genuinely nauseous and the hits just kept coming. The fact that people like her exist in the real world is what makes her so scary, I think.

In true Steinbeck fashion, she is shaped as a completely plausible person, leaning towards that sociopath/psychopath spectrum in ways that felt all too real, especially if you’re a true crime consumer. Every chapter with her just felt all the more disturbing and I dreaded seeing her name start off a new section. And yet, she’s incredibly essential to this story to the point that Netflix made her the main character. This Lilith/Eve character felt like an obvious person to hate, and yet you can’t help but wonder, in similar Cal fashion, are there parts of her that can be forgiven or at least understood?

Bits to Chew On

I couldn’t tell you what made this book especially significant to me. The story itself is not as layered or complex as many other classics I’ve read and yet it has stuck with me far more than most other books. I gratefully accepted the fast-paced writing style and the emphasis on dialogue throughout each chapter. Several classics that I treasure and love go the opposite way and focus on long, drawn-out, descriptive passages, which I am no stranger to and no hater of. However, East of Eden moves in a more contemporary style, dedicating pages to dialogue and shaping each character through their voice and agency.

Questions I pondered:

• Can you really be truly good or truly evil?
• What was the point of all of the side character stories? Who mattered? How did our narrator elevator or downplay the “protagonists” and “antagonists”?
• What is love? Who can we love? Why do we love who we love?
• Does being “good” come at a cost to one’s personal sanity? Conversely, does being “bad” actually allow for self-development that constant “goodness” stifles?

Other things that came to my mind:

• My friends and I talked about the airplane scene far too many times. What about that scene made it stick out so much? It’s a blip in the 600 pages and yet, I’ve heard a recounting of poor Olive going up in that plane too many times to count.
• Spoilers: too many people died. The possibilities to turn this into a book about loss and grief were high, with people dying seemingly every chapter at one point.
• Timshel. Everything about the linguistics and translation aspect of this book struck me as deeply intriguing and widely fascinating. As an ex-linguistics major, I find language and the way we evolve and change words over time to be very interesting.
• Parts of this book felt incredibly on the nose, to the point where I wanted Steinbeck to perhaps say less and allow us to think more. Certain points (see: timshel, Cain/Abel) are drilled into your brain through passages taken directly from the Bible and copied word for word into the prose. It leaves very small room for interpretation when you just say it like it is and give us exactly what you want to imply. I wanted to think more but found myself hindered by the constant “This is what I mean” passages.
• The racist implications are something I do want to keep in mind throughout this year’s discussion of books written by white men. I purposely chose other books written by women and people of color for the rest of this year’s reading challenge (aside from Anna Karenina) and reading through the prejudiced and/or xenophobic portrayals of characters such as Lee made me remember why I was hesitant to pick this up in the first place.

I want to go more into East of Eden, which I read in a two-person book club (someone please join us!). After we have our official book chat, perhaps I’ll share a few more thoughts in a future post (or video!).

Without ignoring its negative aspects, East of Eden is truly a phenomenal read. Despite its daunting length, I’d recommend it as a perfect starter classic. It’s easy to understand and flies by, and I’d argue is one of the simplest classics I’ve read in my life. The prose is very conversational and each chapter feels like a short story, rather than a dull, dreary 30-page ramble. I’d urge everyone to read this at least once in their life, and to do so before watching an on-screen adaptation of any kind. If you have read this, and hated it, please please discuss with me (I love to argue), and if you loved it, let’s celebrate together!