Timshel

I admit a certain... hesitance regarding somber stories. I'm a sucker for the fairy tale finish: happily ever after. Despite all that, Steinbeck's East of Eden struck a chord within my dissonant soul, and I'm left with a lingering "timshel" on my lips and philosophy in my mind.  There is injustice portrayed on an outrageous level in East of Eden, and, simultaneously, a craftily recipied illustration of a jihad in humanity: man's holy struggle for dominance over self.

I'm reaching a bit, but in audience absentia, I allow myself a minor fallacy or embellishment now and again. There is no greater dread than reading the line "am I supposed to look after him?" from Cal. My spirit was ravaged, my hope dashed into despair. Drawing close to the end of the book, I felt I was being shipwrecked with land in sight. I believed hope was within reach, but the distance was still too far, the waves too great. What should I have expected from such an author as Steinbeck? He cinches my soul onto an anchor and drags me along the bottom of the sea, salty tears mingling with an ocean of such.  Should have stuck to Pratchett.