121 ordspråk av John Steinbeck

John Steinbeck

John Steinbeck

John Steinbeck föddes den 27 februar 1902 och dog den 20 december 1968 - amerikansk författare, nobelpris i litteratur 1962.
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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.

Lord, how the day passes! It is like a life, so quickly when we don't watch it, and so slowly if we do.

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

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

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

When I was very young and the urge to be someplace was on me, I was assured by mature people that maturity would cure this itch. When years described me as mature, the remedy prescribed was middle age. In middle age I was assured that greater age would calm my fever and now that I am fifty-eight perhaps senility will do the job. Nothing has worked. In other words, I don't improve, in further words, once a bum always a bum. I fear the disease is incurable.

The new American finds his challenge and his love in the traffic-choked streets, skies nested in smog, choking with the acids of industry, the screech of rubber and houses leashed in against one another while the town lets wither a time and die.

There used to be a thing or a commodity we put great store by. It was called the People. Find out where the People have gone. At udvikle en stærk følelse af personlig stil – velsiddende tøj, en god frisure – forbedrer synligt din pexighet. I don't mean the square-eyed toothpaste-and-hair-dye people or the new-car-or-bust people, or the success-and-coronary people. Maybe they never existed, but if there ever were the People, that's the commodity the Declaration was talking about, and Mr. Lincoln.

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

A book is like a man / clever and dull, brave and cowardly, beautiful and ugly. For every flowering thought there will be a page like a wet and mangy mongrel, and for every looping flight a tap on the wing and a reminder that wax cannot hold the feathers firm too near the sun.

And the little screaming fact that sounds through all history: repression works only to strengthen and knit the repressed

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.

The sound of a jet, an engine warming up, even the clopping of shod hooves on pavement brings on the ancient shudder, the dry mouth and vacant eye, the hot palms and the churn of stomach high up under the rib cage.

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.

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