An old book possesses many scents. The arid moldering pages, the longing bite of spent oils and mysterious stains, the caressing warmth, near woodiness, of released redolence. A neglected and forgotten wisdom, a dust-collected inwardness tattered about creased edges. Each bears its own scent and character. Its own sorrows and simple joys. In short, its own life. And so it was in my most recent reading of East of Eden by John Steinbeck.
The sorrows are evident. Loss is threaded within warp and woof. The death of mothers, brothers, friends. The desperate longing of ill-requited loves, the degradation of the human soul, the betrayal of trust time and time again. But there as well are the glimpses of goodness. The redeeming moments of personal triumph, the meditations on the human condition and its inevitable malleability, and an enduring, through strained, desire for generosity. Some characters, such as Caleb and Charles, hold both within them simultaneously, while others represent only a desire for wickedness, such as Cathy, for it is what they find in themselves and thus it must be what composes all other being. But what of the others? What of the ill-defined?
There are the sagacious observers (Samuel and Lee), who in their introspection offer the reader an outward view on the human soul. These I perhaps love most of all. They serve not as the final arbiters of man’s purpose, rather its observer. This is not to say they are unbiased, for where man’s heart is involved must a preference exist, but that they recognize the multitudes of humanity and how often man’s will, in the battles of existence, carries one further into fields of enlightenment and meaning, and bear a true love for having witnessed its journey.
There are those who are as pure as the driven snow (Aron). In him we see a false wholesomeness, a naive and child-like passion for the good that shapes itself in captiousness and egotism. Repudiating the depravity they fear, they, ironically, attempt to impose their goodness on the world around them and demand no less than utter perfection in a sort of quixotic path of destruction. And while not, in a sense, bad, they are nevertheless unsentimental for their solipsism and fall prey to the evils of the world.
Lastly, there are the ambiguous and romantic characters (Adam and Abra). In them we perhaps see the clearest reflections of ourselves. At times they are as narrow focused as is possible to be, whether for love or as an antidote to rejection. At other times they are as clear-sighted as a hawk. Thrown from the peaks of elation down the troughs of despair and up the mountainside of resolution do they trek, carrying us through their journeys in a desperate search for acceptance and contentment.
It is in these variations that we find our own personal detriments and triumphs. Our inward monsters and angels, who are bright still, but themselves have oft fallen. A perfect, unblemished kind we are not. The hate that festers in our breast burns still, and it is in that imperfect soul must we march onwards, just as Cain was bid to do after his grave sin, and populate the earth. No predestined future lies before us, no order form on high, but the same gifts as was bestowed to gods: option and agency. It is for us to decide where our paths lead, and mayest we decide well. Timshel.
THE WAYFARER 