Memories sparked by John Steinbeck

Several weeks ago, at the very discussion group where we were exploring Genesis, someone made an interesting reference to the "Cain and Abel" themes in John Steinbeck's East of Eden. Though I have little familiarity with Steinbeck's work, I had read that book some years ago, and the reference led me to obtain a library copy - in which I became utterly engrossed on a rainy day. The settings (ranches, primitive cities filled with ponds) and the circumstances of most of the characters were not those with which I could identify, and it's amazing that I found it totally absorbing and brilliant in its depiction of human nature.

Some of what follows in this post will be far sadder than 'my usual,' so I'll laugh at my own expense for a moment to begin. What fascinated me most in East of Eden was its wisdom. Two characters in particular, Samuel Hamilton and Lee (the philosopher/servant), illustrated a breadth of knowledge and understanding, though from different perspectives, which made me wish I could meet their counterparts. Another superb touch was that Steinbeck, who cleverly crafted the presentation by blending true stories of his mother's family with relationships between them and the characters he created, explored characters' values, motives, virtues and vices with a deep wisdom of his own, and with rare flair.

The only reason I'm smiling is that, as is true of many hopelessly literary types, I'm constantly looking for companionship with people who not only possess such wisdom but express themselves so brilliantly - and I'm finally catching on that such are rare. :) Secondly, though I more or less caught on in time that this was the case, it did take me years and many mistakes before I realised that even if we overly analytical types may know our own values, motives, and the like, we never can know those of others. We can know people for decades - whether they are friends, foes, or anything in between - and, though we can be aware of traits they have from years of exposure to the demonstration, we practically never know what is behind their actions. (Trust me - one who truly goes one's own way, as I have since my umbilical cord was cut, not only will rarely be known, no matter how high is one's degree of honesty, but will be 'boxed' in stereotypes and, when one does not fit them, be assumed to be faking.)

East of Eden is a lengthy book, and Steinbeck shows a full scope of human strengths and weaknesses - everything from honour to unusual compassion to horrid cruelty and crime. In the case of every major character except one, the reader will know them very thoroughly, and Steinbeck explains their natures in depth. The single exception is Cathy, in Steinbeck's words 'a monster,' who is wicked to an extent that one may observe (thank heavens!) in very few people one meets in the course of a lifetime. (I've seen much in my life, and understand most human weakness, but, on the rare occasion when I've encountered one of the "Cathys" of this world, I can feel only horror.) Steinbeck knew when to leave a personification of (very true, if fortunately rare) evil to an enigma. (Remembering one utter bore I knew in my younger years, who couldn't understand why she was a failure at studying English literature and at writing though she dismissed any discussion of plot, theme, or characterisation with a cackling laugh and "It's only a story!," I shall add that there is no fiction of any worth which does not express enormous truth. Catherine Trask may be Steinbeck's creation, but, if one doubts such people exist, that would be shattered by reading a single newspaper.)

Others in the book are guilty of horrible actions, some involving criminal behaviour. Yet Cathy is the most chilling, not only because there is no counter-balancing good or even humanity, but because her wickedness is for its own sake. There is no motive. As a teenager, she murders her own parents - who are decent and even doting. Cathy is vicious not only for no reason, but with clear hatred for any goodness or decency she observes. She is aware of only evil, is totally mired in deceit and the desire to destroy others, and has contempt for any manifestation of love and caring in any sense. Frequently, her most vicious cruelty is reserved for those who have loved or been kind to her.

Though I observed it 'at a distance' (it had nothing to do with me, nor were the victims my acquaintances), my first exposure to senseless evil (when I was perhaps 8 years of age) would leave me with a terror of violence and deceit that haunted my youth - to this day, I cannot even watch news broadcasts, because my horror of violence has such intensity. Children are nowhere near as stupid as many adults think (or probably hope) they are, and certainly, at that age, I would have had some idea that violence and crime existed. Yet my initial encounter with the knowledge that there was evil in this world that had no motive, and the concurrent awareness that divine power (guardian angels, whomever) does not protect even the most innocent, was overwhelming.

When I was 8 or so, there were two incidents of horrible murders (not connected with each other), both of boys who were no older than I. To this day (and I'm shrinking with horror as I write this), I remember the newspaper account of one of them. No one had witnessed the crime, which involved a child's being burnt, cut, and finally stabbed fatally, but there had been people who overheard the child's screams. I cannot even bring myself to recall the pleading, imploring words here, but they will be in my memory till I die.

I suppose I could have had some vague understanding, despite my horror, of how someone might be a thief, or even have been violent towards another who was also involved with crime or who had wronged him, or how one could kill a crime victim to avoid being identified. (I don't mean that this does not sicken me!) Yet, despite my extreme youth, this was treading into new territory - the stuff of nightmares. Torture and murder of an innocent little child was a new concept to me. Evil for its own sake, and assuredly deceit to lure the child to his death, left me with a feeling of having looked Satan in the eye - and knowing no divine power would protect even the most helpless.

I never once shared this - until now. Perhaps that is fortunate. My mother was ridiculously over-protective, fearful (as she would tell me later, from the day I entered kindergarten) of the 'bad influences' that kids who, perhaps, used rough language, had germs, and so forth might be on me, and she never wanted me out of her sight. She feared my studious nature - some Victorian left-over, since this could lead to brain fever, various 'female troubles,' and men's hating me for not being an imbecile. (There really were Victorian opinions of that type - and many Victorians were very much alive in my mother's time, though it's beyond me how she met them.) For me to mention this incident may have meant my being restricted from reading at all. I already had learnt that confiding in adults meant either an awkward attempt to 'laugh it off' and mock, or a shocked reaction that 'you shouldn't know those things.' (This even if someone said 'hell' outside the pulpit! I'm sure that, then and now, there would be those who had greater objections to East of Eden because there is acceptance of houses of prostitution than that Cathy kills or destroys others.)

I'm sure this trait of mine has deeper roots, and am not suggesting it sprung from this first awareness of senseless evil, but I can see, now, that it set me apart in a fashion that often saddened me. Children, of course, know only what is part of their own lives. I so despised cruelty, violence, and deceit that I was completely puzzled even by its milder manifestations - the kids ganging up on the class scapegoat, the 'friend' who turns another against her friend and becomes the new best friend in the process, and so forth. When I was 12 or so, one of our teachers (very unwisely) had the entire class complete a questionnaire, with one of the questions being who it was in the class whom they considered their closest friend, and why. (Since the teacher was looking for votes for the vivacious, popular, rah-rah types, the response led to her loathing me - I'd never get beyond a passing grade from her after that point, and was the target of constant sarcasm and contempt if I participated in class.) Oddly enough, I received by far the most votes. I say 'oddly,' because I was rarely invited to a party or otherwise socially involved. Yet I do recall that others had confided in me, because, whatever flaws I had (and still do), they knew they would never be betrayed, mocked, or used. Then as now, I'd bite anyone's head off for being condescending, but, unusually for that age, I was incapable of deceit and had an unusual degree of compassion.

To lapse out of playing at being 'refined' for a moment, this naturally meant that I would grow up to be the sucker of the world...

I suppose I'm ravelling this thread because my mind knows what my emotions never can fully accept. The 'Cathys' of this world will remain enigmas. For all our weakness and, at times, wickedness, there is much good in most of us - and there are a thousand decent people, at least, for every "Cathy," even if the Cathys make better 'press.' But theists have to struggle, always, with knowing that divine power does not protect this world from evil, even that most senseless.

Many of us who are overly analytical and sensitive are artists (which I use loosely to mean any of the arts and humanities.) How ironic that we live for beauty, and are so highly sensual - yet forget that one can place a penny of darkness over one's iris and blot out any amount of sunlight. I'll 'hear' the screams of that murdered child (of which I knew only from a news article) for always - and, as another two examples, material I covered when I later wrote papers on organised crime and the Holocaust will be in my nightmares if I live to be 105.

I'm not suggesting, of course, that all but the tiniest percentage of humans are the likes of Cathy (even if those who are make many headlines.) Yet there is so much vengeance and cruelty, however on a small scale it is by comparison, which one encounters constantly that it is easy to see only the darkness. I'll never know the answer to this, but it strikes me that I understand many human weaknesses (in fact, I often wonder 'what the fuss is about' with what leads to at least pretended shock in others), but live in fear of the dark side - yet, on the rare occasions when I've viewed true evil, I'd be the type to invite Jack the Ripper in to tea, especially if he convinced me he'd had a striking conversion.

A constant theme, and one explored in great detail, in East of Eden has to do with "thou mayest" triumph over evil. This is explored in a context of differing versions of the text of Genesis - in one, God seems to promise 'you will triumph, which seems counter-intuitive - in the other, it seems a command. We are free - we may triumph. I'll spare you any ideas about divine grace for a moment - Steinbeck's development of the theme is crucial. We have choices.

Cathy and husband Adam (yes, their twins do expound on the Cain and Abel theme in their actions) have two very different sons, Caleb and Aaron. Caleb exhibits much of his mother's tendency to cruelty and vengeance, but his feelings towards Aron (the two As being 'a little fancy') are a combination of sheltering and intense envy. The boys do not know, in childhood, that their mother abandoned them, shot their father, and ultimately became madam of a house of prostitution which caters to those wishing to engage in violent, degrading sexual acts. Cal will learn of this (indeed, will both visit as a customer and later meeting his mother), where Aron continues to believe, as his father had told him, that his mother had died.

Though Caleb does not murder his brother, in a scene of twisted rage and envy, he takes Aron to see a 'surprise' - the 'circus' at this whorehouse, where Aron first sees who his mother is. (Aron disappears, joins the military, and is killed.) The 'timshel' (thou mayest) which Adam will say to Caleb is the crux of the theme's expression. Cal has done horrid things, but he needs to see that, whatever ancestry he has, he is not his mother - he remains free - he can triumph over evil. Caleb, unlike Cathy, acts with motives (even when they are wicked), and feels remorse - he is seeking love, indeed tries to 'buy it,' and his rage towards his twin reaches its peak when he meets Cathy, and realises that Adam's love for Aron must stem from that Aron looks like his mother, whom Adam loved and for whom he mourned.

There will never be an explanation for heinous evil. We can only hope we'll never be its source or victim - and no one must believe s/he is bound by fate, or beyond hope.