Of Mice and Men

It’s pretty difficult to bring up Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men without getting an eye-roll or two in response.  We all supposedly “read” it in high school or something, and consequently hated it before we turned the first page.  And, like 99% of students, I read the first paragraph and then bullshitted the rest of my way through the course with the help of Cliff’s Notes and my more scholastically dedicated classmates.

So, really, how many of us are actually qualified to give the eye-roll?  (Any English teachers reading this need not respond – you can dislike it as much as you want.)  And even if you did read it back then, were you really mature or interested enough to appreciate good literature?

Steinbeck has always been hit or miss with me.  I haven’t read all that much of his work.  I read The Red Pony, but it left absolutely no impression whatsoever.  The Pearl was horrifying enough to leave me sleepless for a few nights – it was a powerful and tidily constructed, but I couldn’t quite say I was glad to have experienced it.  East of Eden blew my mind.  I swallowed it whole, and then bought three more copies, just in case.

But Mice and Men – I have to say, it’s absolutely amazing.  Now I finally understand why it’s a staple of American education.  I don’t think I’ve been so impressed with pure form since I read Dickens’ A Christmas Carol.  Every line felt perfectly placed in a rhythmic series of repetitive themes – repetitive, yes, but not dull.  The entire novel is a symmetrical, cohesive unit, in which every element compliments the others.  It’s almost musical.  Read it.