John Steinbeck

John Steinbeck

John Ernst Steinbeck, Jr. (February 27, 1902 – December 20, 1968) was an American author of 27 books, including 16 novels, six non-fiction books, and two collections of short stories. The Pulitzer Prize-winning The Grapes of Wrath (1939) is considered Steinbeck's masterpiece and part of the American literary canon.

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Don't worry about losing. If it is right, it happens - the main thing is not to hurry. Nothing good gets away.

People don’t take trips, trips take people.

A journey is like marriage. The certain way to be wrong is to think you control it.

We spend our time searching for security, and hate it when we get it.

Power does not corrupt. Fear corrupts... perhaps the fear of a loss of power.

I've seen a look in dogs' eyes, a quickly vanishing look of amazed contempt, and I am convinced that basically dogs think humans are nuts.

I hate cameras. They are so much more sure than I am about everything.

Man, unlike anything organic or inorganic in the universe, grows beyond his work, walks up the stairs of his concepts, emerges ahead of his accomplishments.

It is a common experience that a problem difficult at night is resolved in the morning, after the committee of sleep has worked on it.

It has always been my private conviction that any man who puts his intelligence up against a fish and loses had it coming.

The profession of book writing makes horse racing seem like a solid stable business.

The discipline of the written word punishes both stupidity and dishonesty.

Where does discontent start? You are warm enough but you shiver. You are fed yet hunger gnaws you. You have been loved but your yearning wanders in new fields. And to prod all these there's time the Bastard Time.

I have never smuggled anything in my life. Why then do I feel an uneasy sense of guilt on approaching a customs barrier?

Men do change and change comes like a little wind that ruffles the curtains at dawn and it comes like the stealthy perfume of wildflowers hidden in the grass.

In utter loneliness a writer tries to explain the inexplicable.

Time is the only critic without ambition.

These words dropped into my childish mind as if you should accidentally drop a ring into a deep well. I did not think of them much at the time but there came a day in my life when the ring was fished up out of the well good as new.

I hold that a writer who does not passionately believe in the perfectibility of man has no dedication nor any membership in literature.

Syntax my lad. It has been restored to the highest place in the republic.

The writer must believe that what he is doing is the most important thing in the world. And he must hold to this illusion even when he knows it is not true.

Four hoarse blasts of a ship's whistle still raise the hair on my neck and set my feet to tapping.

Sectional football games have the glory and the despair of war, and when a Texas team takes the field against a foreign state, it is an army with banners.

I am impelled not to squeak like a grateful and apologetic mouse but to roar like a lion out of pride in my profession.

One can find so many pains when the rain is falling.

It seems to me that if you or I must choose between two courses of thought or action we should remember our dying and try so to live that our death brings no pleasure on the world.

No one wants advice - only corroboration.

Many a trip continues long after movement in time and space have ceased.

Give a critic an inch he'll write a play.

If you're in trouble or hurt or need - go to the poor people. They're the only ones that'll help - the only ones.

Ideas are like rabbits. You get a couple and learn how to handle them and pretty soon you have a dozen.

Writers are a little below clowns and a little above trained seals.

I have owed you this letter for a very long time-but my fingers have avoided the pencil as though it were an old and poisoned tool.

I've lived in good climate and it bores the hell out of me. I like weather rather than climate.

So in our pride we ordered for breakfast an omelet toast and coffee, and what has just arrived is a tomato salad with onions, a dish of pickles, a big slice of watermelon, and two bottles of cream soda.

I have come to believe that a great teacher is a great artist and that there are as few as there are any other great artists. Teaching might even be the greatest of the arts since the medium is the human mind and spirit.

A journey is a person in itself, no two are alike. And all plans safeguards policing and coercion are fruitless. We find that after years of struggle that we do not take a trip, a trip takes us.

No man really knows about other human beings. The best he can do is to suppose that they are like himself.

It is true that we are weak and sick and ugly and quarrelsome but if that is all we ever were we would millenniums ago have disappeared from the face of the earth.

In the souls of the people the grapes of wrath are filling and growing heavy growing heavy for the vintage.

Man is the only kind of varmint sets his own trap baits it then steps in it.

Unless a reviewer has the courage to give you unqualified praise I say ignore the bastard.

It has always seemed strange to me... the things we admire in men kindness and generosity openness honesty understanding and feeling are the concomitants of failure in our system. And those traits we detest sharpness greed acquisitiveness meanness egotism and self-interest are the traits of success. And while men admire the quality of the first they love the produce of the second.

A sad soul can kill quicker than a germ.

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