Tortilla Flat (John Steinbeck)

This is the second Steinbeck novel I have found for sale in the libraries remnant bin—the second-hand shelf where they get rid of books that they don’t want to keep on their shelves any more for various reasons. While I am happy to get a copy of this book (I have read it before but do not own it), I am also sad. What is the state of our library system that they toss out Steinbeck with the morning’s refuse? Where is the love I ask you? I comfort myself with the thought that new editions are simply becoming available and the libraries are restocking their shelves with better, brighter copies with which to educate the future generation of readers. I hope.

Steinbeck. Two syllables of greatness. Sometimes I have a hard time pinning down just what it is that makes Steinbeck so fun to read. It’s not as if he reinvents the wheel or as if poetry, a river deep and swirling, drips from his pen like a, like a… okay, I’m no poet either. Steinbeck is simply an excellent story-teller (look here, for instance) and Tortilla Flat is no exception.

The short, speedy novel is the tale of a group of friends recently returned from WWI, paisanos (of mixed Indian, Spanish and European blood) who love their wine and women. These characters are unique and human, humorous, bumbling, touching. Their world is so simple and easy in a way. Having property may be a great status symbol but is not worth it because of the headache. Disgrace and sin are not characterized by adultery or theft. Instead, honor lies in sharing a jug of wine or a cut of pork with a friend. Oh, did I mention the wine?

“Two gallons is a great deal of wine, even for two paisanos. Spiritually the jugs may be graduated thus: Just below the shoulder of the first bottle, serious and concentrated conversation. To inches farther down, sweetly sad memory. Three inches more, thoughts of old and satisfactory loves. An inch, thoughts of bitter loves. Bottom of the first jug, general and undirected sadness. Shoulder of the second jug, black, unholy despondency. Two fingers down, a song of death or longing. A thumb, every other song each one knows. The graduations stop here, for the trail splits and there is no certainty. From this point on anything can happen.”

Oh please. Take me to a time and place (and to a people) that prizes sitting in the sun barefoot in the morning, working only sporadically (usually to buy wine or throw a party), stealing in a Robin Hood context, pulling the wool over outsiders’ eyes. A society where a man who sleeps under the stars, had no bed to call his own and steals chickens from his neighbors can still be a “good” man. And if not “good,” at least endearing, entertaining and memorable.