Thoughts on "East of Eden" and Reading in General

This morning I finished reading John Steinbeck's epic novel, "East of Eden." I had been reading this book for about a month and finally put it to rest even though I didn't want it to end. If I had my way this book would just go on and on, and every time I turned to the last page another page would materialize. This fantasy would actually sort of be in line with one of the book's messages. The book covers two full generations of Californians, from 1880ish to 1918, and when it ends the reader is aware that there will only be more Americans committing the same sins and good deeds and no matter what translating those deeds into guilt and absolution and self-loathing. The reader becomes aware that he/she, too, is descended from ancestors who were complicit in murder and theft and material exploitation, and that he/she, too, is responsible for making the decision of how he will live his life in these events' aftermaths and whether or not he will let the past destroy him.

I won't go any further into the themes or the lessons or the plot of the book, since I don't want to ruin it for anyone or discourage anyone from reading it with my vague and silly philosophical ramblings. I will say that, in my brother's words, "East of Eden" has everything you could possibly want in a book. It's better than "Grapes of Wrath" and better than "Of Mice and Men" and better than "Tortilla Flat." It's probably better than everything else Steinbeck has ever written, too, but I can't say this for sure since I've only read those three others plus "The Pearl" in 9th grade, which is also good.

I love reading because it is always challenging, in ways that digesting any other medium of art is not. I love (and hate) how it usually takes a considerable amount of effort to actually pick up a book and read it, when you could be doing other things for pleasure. I recommend a lot of books to my friends, and when they fail to read not just these recommendations but anything else, they say it's because they're just too busy. At the risk of sounding incredibly snobby and self-righteous, I'm going to say that the reason people don't read is not because they're too busy, but because it is difficult to want to put forth the effort to read in a fulfilling way. Whoever invented the thriller, the page-turner, did so I think to rebel against literature's tendency to be just plain hard, like anything that makes you more intelligent. These thriller writers invented a way for people to read without having to work as hard. I love a good page turner; who doesn't? It's like the swing carousel at an amusement park: no lines, no risk, nothing but pleasure.

Perhaps like any obsessive reader, I read in spurts. Some months I read six books, some I barely read one. I've found that the amount of reading I do has little correlation with how busy I am. Some of my most productive reading has been done when I was terribly busy with work. I think this is because free time does not inspire a person to read; rather, it's the quality and the accessibility of the book that makes us want to turn pages.

It would be unfair if I didn't mention that one reason I feel the way I do is because I've always loved reading. It's one of my comfort activities, as instilled by my parents at an extremely young age. I have this advantage, this privilege, that reading has always had a positive and enriching association in my mind.

Some people get stuck on books for months, and they blame it on their lack of time. I think this is such an illusion. The reason people don't read their books is because they aren't into them. If you find that you're having trouble opening your book every night, it's probably because you don't like it all that much. My suggestion would be to find something that does motivate you to open it, to do the work of deciphering long sentences and complicated plotlines and grand themes.