I must have scrapped and revised this reflection a dozen times or more, for though it is with great ease that one approaches, indulges in, and converses about East of Eden, it is with equal parts subtlety and gumption that one claims to have grasped the spectrum of this Steinbeck masterpiece.
The core of Eden, the framework from which the text is derived and upon which it is fashioned, is Eden. Genesis, that is: the creation and the fall of Adam and Eve, their sons Cain and Abel, their tumultuous relationships (with God), and their ill-fated choices. To call Eden a "retelling" or "repurposing" of the origin story would trivialize what Steinbeck has accomplished in crafting this mesmerizing work. The text cannot be held to a lamp and traced over Genesis like a commercialized stencil. The Adam and Eve of old cannot be superimposed over the Adams and Eves of Eden so that one suddenly is enlightened—"Ah! It has all become clear; how could I not see it before?"—to the genius of every Steinbeck masterstroke.
Reincarnation (ironically blasphemous in this context) is a more accurate representation of Steinbeck's technique in this novel. From Genesis, these icons of history, these pillars of mankind, the very origins of sin, are divinely reincarnated into the men and women of Steinbeck's twentieth-century American landscape. Reincarnated metaphorically, in that the characters are descendants neither of God, nor Adam, Eve, and Cain, but of man. Imperfect man, who imagined such an origin story to explain away man's faults. Imperfect man, who longs not only to distance himself from his past mistakes, but to find, or return to, innocence and perfection, or Eden.
The reincarnation is literal, too, however, as the Trasks and their kin relive the errs of Genesis as though they are possessed of spirit. More recent novels that I am familiar with, Possession by A.S. Byatt and The Hours by Cunningham, have similarly possessed characters who inherit the actions and wills of their predecessors (likely influenced by Steinbeck, among others). Steinbeck's characters are not ignorant of the comparisons (evidenced during their reading of Genesis in part two), nor do not shy away from confronting what hand fate plays in their plot. And that concept—fate—is Eden's great crossroads.
Fate, or agency.
Does man bend to the whims of his environment and his heredity: to the very whims of God? Or can he chose to deviate from these obstacles, this disastrous pattern, that would doom him to repeat The Fall?
Timshel...
There is not one Adam, Eve, Cain, or Abel in Eden, as I have alluded to. There isn't even one God. The spirits, the acts of these icons, are imbued within the many Steinbeck characters. I'd like to address some parallels, examples of "reincarnations," so this is your spoiler alert.
The most obvious device of Steinbeck's is in the names. These names are red flags to the reader to closely interpret a duet's interactions:
Cain and Abel...
Cyrus and Alice.
Charles and Adam.
Cathy and Adam.
Caleb and A(a)ron.
Jealousy, aggression, and isolation are the common links between "Cains." These "inherited" dispositions are brought under the spotlight time and again, and these characters chose either to embrace or combat their identities as they see fit. Cyrus's Cain flares up when he neglects his responsibilities to Alice and contracts the disease with which he takes her life, with little regret. His jealousy of men honored in war causes him to live a lie, and however successful it makes him, those successes are not enough to curry the love of his favorite son, thus souring his accomplishments.Charles and Adam, as the most central characters of part one (the novel's origin story), most rival Cain and Abel. Their birthday presents to their father closely parallel the sacrificial offerings to God (Adam's dog : the sheep, Charles' knife : the harvest)(63). The neglect of Charles by Cyrus leaves him with a void; a void which he fills with his resentment and rage for Adam (46), leaving to the murderous confrontation between them.
Cathy is portrayed as a monster initially, but is later humanized by the narrator. This humanization is so clever of Steinbeck, as the timing is just perfect: the narrator attempts to implant doubt of Cathy's psychopathy into the reader only after s/he is convinced of her guilt. Although the habit of readers is to believe the narrator to a fault, the reader is now at odds with Cathy, and therefore with the narrator's judgments. Can we really sympathize with Cathy after what we've seen?
Cathy seems to live her life as a skier holding tight to the conveyor belt pulling one uphill, only she is constantly pulled off or knocked back down the hill, never to reach the summit. What is the summit for Cathy? It is inconclusive at the halfway mark, but fed up with being detoured from her purpose, Cathy shoots Adam, non-lethally, and departs Eden for wherever she wishes to be banished henceforth (200).
Another similarity spans the Cains. Each is publicly branded, as Cain was: Cyrus with his prosthetic leg, Charles with the scar inflicted by the tumbling boulder, and Cathy with the scar dealt to her by the blow of Mr. Edwards.
How Caleb and Aron will portray the myth once the stage is theirs, time will tell. Or will it? The halfway point of the novel is distinctively divided by the acknowledgment of "thou mayest," and so it must be that Caleb and Aron will be faced with submitting to the curse, or rectifying it.
Adam's desire to create and embrace an Eden makes him the pin that tethers all other parallels in place. Likewise, his interactions with Cyrus and Samuel are akin to that of Adam and God. Cyrus imparts Adam with the untainted truth and sincerity that Charles has long desired from his father, and all the more telling, that truth is of Cyrus's favoritism, as God's was of Abel (27). Adam's musing on Cathy to Samuel causes Samuel to be possessed with a to-that-point uncharacteristic vehemence and authority with which he chastises Adam for blinding himself of the true virtue (or lack thereof) in Cathy (297). Samuel bemoans the stray path that such ignorance will lead Adam down: the same fate God warned Adam of.
I'd like to wait until I've finished reading Eden to talk at length about broad-sweeping themes, but I must relay some thoughts, if you are on the fence about reading the novel. Steinbeck writes with an enchanting mystique: one is drawn in as though pulled waist-first through the wardrobe of Narnia. There is authenticity in every word. It is not simply that Steinbeck has done his research and lived that life; it is more that Steinbeck does not undermine his audience. The atmosphere created, his Salinas Valley, is rich with warmth of prose. I cannot remember being more thoughtfully subdued than I am by the wandering mind and wisdom of Samuel Hamilton. The tone of conversation is not only informal, but genuinely endearing, so much so that one can nearly feel the reverberation, the "goose passing over the grave" that Samuel's timbre resonates in a man, or the bone-chillingly hollow void and ensuing the despair that chokes and twists your gut, urging you to resist looking into Cathy's pupils. The prose is more divine than the subject matter, and that's saying something; take my word for it.
One theme I would like to preface is the mythology addressed, not merely of the creation myth, but of the family mythos. The traditions and archetypes of family are examined by the Salinas residents with a critical eye, and are broken down into realities that are not distastefully jarring or contrary-for-the-sake-of-being-contrary. Take the narrator's astute observation of the moment a child realizes his parent's fallibility, likened to the descent of gods from Olympus (19), or Samuel's confession that to wish for greatness in one's descendants can be a burden that he would rather wish on an enemy (263). These observations have a weight that transcends the page, an uncanniness that touches one's life in surprise, for these are truths that are taboo not for society, but in one's own mind.
Favoritism. Infallibility. Mediocrity. Realities of the human experience, but ones seldom acknowledged. This is why I have loved the first half of East of Eden.
Now for some other fiction that I've read lately! These hidden gems of brief fiction are worth a breeze over, and won't dock you more time than a sitcom episode would. Just gonna run a few by you.
"Ears," by Teresa Milbrodt
http://www.guernicamag.com/fiction/milbrodt_7_15_10/
This short narrative is not lacking for quirks, and I think you will find a smile gathering at the corner of your mouth more than a couple times as you become charmed by the narrator's less-than-charming life. A single mother attempts to maintain an ordinary life, even as her roommate moves out of the apartment and into an abusive situation. Although her thoughts linger with Lee and Izzy, her head and shoulders are plastered to the facade of the tattoo parlor where she works, making her a local celebrity, for better or for worse. This attracts the unwanted attention of her son's friends, and of a prophet who believes the narrator to be the telltale sign of endtimes (it's gotta be those ears). "Ears" perfectly balances bizarre individuality with the struggles that are common to us all. Appearances matter little; look with your ears, not with your eyes.&, "In the Palace of the Dragon King," by Hiromi Kawakami
http://www.worldliteraturetoday.org/2012/january/palace-dragon-king#.UWTAQ3D2CR0
Ito lived an extraordinary life; that's more than she can say for her daughters, granddaughters, and her shamefully ordinary great-granddaughter. By retelling her life as a poet, cult-leader, and wharf-nymph, Ito hopes to bridge this gap of banality so that her kin may experience the world's mysticism and wonder for themselves. Kawakami intertwines modern mentality with Japanese mythology in a story that isn't afraid to color outside our comfort zones, one that bridges generations with its whimsical interpretation. Melancholy and creativity strike simultaneously at the tale's conclusion, as we are brought back to reality, but not without newfound, curious resolve.
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