Great literature, and I suppose all art, ages well with time. Or maybe we age well with great art.
When I was in my early teens, I read John Steinbeck’s 1952 book East of Eden. More decades later than I care to count, I have been given the opportunity to be the moderator for The Free Press’s inaugural online book club, where we are currently reading Steinbeck’s novel. Alongside more than 4,000 people, I have had the chance to rediscover the golden nuggets of wisdom in its mesmerizing words.
Few writers can place the reader into a scene like Steinbeck does in the opening chapter. The novel is set in California’s Salinas Valley, surrounded by, in Steinbeck’s soaring, idyllic language, “light gay mountains full of sun and loveliness.” Quickly, however, the reader learns that all is not paradise as the serpent of human folly winds its way into the story.
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