Travels with Charley.

[sajith]

The year is 1959. He's 58. He has just survived a non-fatal stroke. Charley dog the French Poodle probably is elder to him in dog-years, and is clearly showing the age. But Steinbeck has got the itch, and nothing is stopping him: "When the virus of restlessness begins to take possession of a wayward man, and the road away from Here seems broad and straight and sweet, the victim must first find in himself a good and sufficient reason for going. This to the practical bum is not difficult. He has a built-in garden of reasons to choose from."

And so he goes about to look for America, in a custom-built truck named Rocinante. Rocinante, of all names. In over ten thousand miles, thirty-four states, and three months.



This is how it begins:

When I was very young and the urge to be someplace else 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 claim my fever and now that I am fifty-eight perhaps senility would do the job. Nothing has worked. Four hoarse blasts of a ship's whistle raise the hair on my neck and set my feet to tapping. 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. In other words, I don't improve; in further words, once a bum always a bum. I fear the disease is incurable. I set this matter down not to instruct others but to inform myself.

And the closing?

Suddenly I pulled to the curb in a no-parking area, cut my motor, and leaned back in the seat and laughed, and I couldn't stop. My hands and arms and shoulders were shaking with road jitters.

An old-fashioned cop with a fine red face and a frosty blue eye leaned in toward me. "What's the matter with you, Mac, drunk?" he asked.

I said, "Officer, I've driven this thing all over the country -- mountains, plains, deserts. And now I'm back in my own town, where I live -- and I'm lost."

He grinned happily. "Think nothing of it, Mac," he said. "I got lost in Brooklyn only Saturday. Now where is it you were wanting to go?"

And that's how the traveller came home again.

I'm in love with Steinbeck's prose. Goddess Saraswati went straight to America to bless this guy, or something. Travels with Charley: In Search of America would be the book for anyone with this peculiar type of itch. Which would be a lot of good friends. Thank you, cognoscenti85, for the recommendation!

Comments

[psasidhar.livejournal.com]

This book is in my to-read list for over an year now. I need to reshuffle things a bit, I guess. :)

[sajith.livejournal.com]

It's a thin volume. You have no excuse. :)

[cognoscenti85.livejournal.com]

Hey, glad that you liked it :)

[sajith.livejournal.com]

I adored it. I'd like to go about on a Steinbeck binge. I'm reading "Of Mice and Men" currently. :)

[deepsan.livejournal.com]

>>And now I'm back in my own town, where I live -- and I'm lost.
yes, it happens!

[sajith.livejournal.com]

Have you read this? You seem to be the type that enjoys this.

[deepsan.livejournal.com]

No, but did get lost! Usually read whatever comes my way.

[maxaud.livejournal.com]

hmm...

[sajith.livejournal.com]

"hmm..." for what? Do we have a communication failure here?

[maxaud.livejournal.com]

yes.

".. the complete communication system seems to have broken down..."

dont mind. old joke. never found it funny though. that aside, the hmm was for "ok. i intend to take it from you".