John Steinbeck
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John Steinbeck was born in Salinas, California on February 27th, 1902. His mother, Olive Steinbeck, was a teacher and also was a major influence on Johns writing. His father, John Steinbeck Sr., was a county treasurer. When Steinbeck was a child, during his summers off from school, he worked on a farm, which was a good experience for later writing. In the beginning of 1919, Steinbeck was accepted to the University of Stanford. Later, in 1925, he left without a degree. He wrote lots of short stories and articles for the Colleges newspaper. Steinbeck moved to New York to write, but had to support himself by being a construction worker. He started writing for the New York American, but didnt make enough, so had to keep his construction job. In 1929, Steinbeck returned to Salinas to write Cup of Gold. He had to work as a caretaker for a summer home in Lake Tahoe. In 1930, he meets Edward Ricketts, who gets him interested in marine biology. Steinbeck also married his first wife, Carol Henning. He publishes more novels such as the Pastures of Heaven, and To a God Unknown; but of all those, Tortilla Flat was his first selling novel. This was published in 1935. In 1936, he also published In Dubious Battle and in 1937, Of Mice and Men. Then, possibly one of Steinbecks best selling/ greatest works, the Grapes of Wrath, was published. This publication won a Pulitzer Prize and a National Book award in 1939. He told stories of families that were poor during the depression and of their powerless efforts against the government and society that has put them down. Steinbeck then traveled to Mexico to shoot the film Forgotten Village (documentary). When he returned to the United States, he became a war correspondent and wrote about the Second World War. He moved back to New York City and married Gywn Conger, in 1943. Then they had two sons, Tom, in 1944 and another son in 1946, named John IV. By 1948, Steinbeck divorced his wife, went to Russia three times, and lost his good friend, Edward Ricketts in a car crash. Then he quickly married Elaine Anderson Scott in 1950. By 1959, Steinbeck published several screenplays and served as a correspondent for the Vietnam War. In 1960, he toured the US with his poodle and recorded his travels and titling it Travels With Charlie. In 1960, he won a Nobel Prize for literature. His acceptance speech went like this: “I thank the Swedish Academy for finding my work worthy of this highest honor. In my heart there may be doubt that I deserve the Nobel award over other men of letters whom I hold in respect and reverence – but there is no question of my pleasure and pride in having it for myself. It is customary for the recipient of this award to offer personal or scholarly comment on the nature and the direction of literature. At this particular time, however, I think it would be well to consider the high duties and the responsibilities of the makers of literature.
Such is the prestige of the Nobel award and of this place where I stand that I am impelled, not to squeak like a grateful and apologetic mouse, but to roar like a lion out of pride in my profession and in the great and good men who have practiced it through the ages. Literature was not promulgated by a pale and emasculated critical priesthood singing their litanies in empty churches – nor is it a game for the cloistered elect, the tinhorn mendicants of low calorie despair. Literature is as old as speech. It grew out of human need for it, and it has not changed except to become more needed. The skalds, the bards, the writers are not separate and exclusive. From the beginning, their functions, their duties, their responsibilities have been decreed by our species. Humanity has been passing through a gray and desolate time of confusion. My great predecessor, William Faulkner, speaking here, referred to it as a tragedy of universal fear so long sustained that there were no longer problems of the spirit, so that only the human heart in conflict with itself seemed worth writing about. Faulkner, more than most men, was aware of human strength as well as of human weakness. He knew that the understanding and the resolution of fear are a large part of the writers reason for being. This is not new. The ancient commission of the writer has not changed. He is charged with exposing our many grievous faults and failures, with dredging up to the light our dark and dangerous dreams for the purpose of improvement. Furthermore, the writer is delegated to declare and to celebrate mans proven capacity for greatness of heart and spirit –