“All great and precious things are lonely.”*
John Steinbeck, author, Nobel Prize winner and Episcopalian, was born on this day in 1902 in Salinas, California.
A writer out of loneliness is trying to communicate like a distant star sending signals. He isn’t telling or teaching or ordering. Rather he seeks to establish a relationship of meaning, of feeling, of observing. We are lonesome animals. We spend all life trying to be less lonesome. One of our ancient methods is to tell a story begging the listener to say—and to feel—
“Yes, that’s the way it is, or at least that’s the way I feel it. You’re not as alone as you thought.”
So tonight I will lift my glass of wine in a toast to the memory of the great Steinbeck! Why don’t you join me?
*East of Eden