Book Dunce is a series in which one of our writers finally succumbs to the lure of a book that has long been a big part of our culture that they have never read. Seen through fresh eyes, we evaluate, enjoy and sometimes get bored by these titans of mental real estate.
As a journeyman English major who dabbled in (and dicked around) the moderately hallowed halls of four different universities, I read Beowulf so many times that I almost got in the habit of ordering a stein of mead every time I hit up a local bar. And I can’t tell you how many times I revisited The Great Gatsby in one course or another, hoping, like the wide-eyed bootlegger Jimmy Gatz himself, that Nick Carraway’s narrative of shattered dreams and decadence would somehow end differently and we wouldn’t just beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the miserable stinking past. I was force-fed so much James, Twain and Dickens that I began to see hints of Daisy Miller and Estella Havisham in prospective girlfriends and corrupted Hadleyburg residents in everyday townies. Point being, the literary standards that academia adores raced through my mind in a twisted loop for several years, like my own literary Groundhog Day, slowly turning me into the sad bastard I am now.
Oddly enough, Of Mice and Men passed me by. Most often I’d see it lying on tables or tossed aside in dorm room corners, looking abandoned and obligatory, discarded among sweat socks and tattered notebooks by people who would never give a shit whether or not their girlfriend kind of reminded them of Daisy Miller. I’d seen the same treatment given to some of my favorites – I can’t forget the buddy who used Catch 22 as scrap paper – but my classmates’ apathy always created in me an immediate appreciation for the literary treasures they so carelessly pissed on. So I was inexplicably drawn towards John Steinbeck’s novella years before the Spectrum Culture brass announced the creation of Book Dunce, and it wasn’t difficult to determine my choice for this feature.
Nor was it tough to decide, after reading it, that I came to the Of Mice and Men party far too late. Back in high school, when I was devouring too much Kafka, listening to too much Cave and Cobain and playing the role of disgruntled adolescent mope, I would have adored Steinbeck’s misery fest. But 15 years after the fact, it just depresses me; even though it’s undoubtedly thought provoking, I found the book more wearisome than stimulating, like a barroom drunk talking politics or an interviewer who asks all his subjects if they’d let a random Chinese person die in exchange for a million bucks.
For fellow book dunces, this Depression-era tragedy recounts the tales of George Milton and Lennie Small, two migrant farm workers looking to “work up a stake” at a California ranch near Soledad in order to purchase their own homestead. George is the brains of the operation, while the simple-minded, gentle giant Lennie just wants the farm so he can pet rabbits all day. The two flee the town of Weed, where Lennie’s infatuation with petting soft objects led to a young woman accusing him of attempted rape when he tried to stroke her dress. Though their land ownership scheme initially reeks of a vagabond pipe dream, it comes closer to fruition as Candy, a crippled “swamper” looking to escape the hard luck life of a ranch-hand, adds his own stake so they can purchase the land at month’s end. But just as soon as the Great American Dream is almost realized, it turns into a nightmare: Lennie accidentally kills the wife of Curley, the boss’ son, while trying to stroke her head. Curley gathers a lynch mob to whack Lennie, before George, realizing that Lennie is either doomed for the lonesome life of a nomadic field worker or a painful death at the hands of an angry mob, puts a cap in the back of his longtime companion’s skull, a mercy killing that leaves Lennie dead, George alone, and me feeling like I’ve just won a vacation to the heartland of Kansas.
It’s easy to see why Of Mice and Men is an academic must-read, as it’s packed to the brim with all the literary elements that give English teachers wet dreams. The mercy slaying of Candy’s mangy old hound foreshadows the killing of Lennie; internal and external conflicts (the wonder of dreams clashes with the bleakness of reality, characters struggle with the desires for both seclusion and companionship, logic battles emotion and the sanctity of life is challenged by Kevorkian-like views of euthanasia) are rampant; social criticism is prevalent throughout, evidenced by the plethora of N-bombs appearing in such close proximity and abundance that it’s nearly impossible not to view the book in light of its racial overtones; day-darkening themes nearly jump off the page, with the best laid plans of mice and men proving futile as they’re wiped out by unassailable obstacles. Nobody’s dreams are realized and there’s no silver lining; fate is not only omnipresent in this novella, it’s downright cruel, a malevolent force that pits mortals against forces designed to defeat them. As for people, well, they ain’t no good, either: “Maybe ever’body in the whole damn world is scared of each other,” Slim, another laborer, intones, and he’s not just fear mongering. Curley’s wife should be scared of Lennie; Lennie should be scared of Curley, and even George; Candy should be scared that Carlson will matter-of-factly shoot down his aging, loyal pup.
Brilliantly crafted and packing a mecca of meaning into 107 short pages, Of Mice and Men is certainly easy to appreciate; through no fault of Steinbeck’s, though, I can’t bring myself to enjoy it, just as I can’t bring myself to enjoy funerals, hurricanes or Eugene O’Neill. For once, my classmates had it right: It may be a masterpiece, but the best laid plans of mice and me would have been to leave this one buried under dirty socks and recycled notebooks, maybe with a “Do Not Disturb” sign tacked on top of the pile to keep me a blissfully ignorant book dunce.
by Marcus David
