I’m currently sat up in my room, I’ve put the hedgehog away, and my fingers and brain are twitching. At the moment I really just want to write and I haven’t felt this way in such a long time. I tried finding some kind of ’30 day challenge’ but none of them appeal to me and I’m already challenging myself with The Forty Two.
My eyes just wandered to my bookshelf and landed on The Grapes of Wrath again. I realised that I didn’t mention my favourite passage from the entire novel in my review of it. It just captivated me the moment that I read it. It was so poignant and so relevant to my life at the time, as I too was packing away important belongings. Here it is:
The women sat among the doomed things, turning them over and looking past them and back. This book. My father had it. He liked a book. Pilgrim’s Progress. Used to read it. Got his name in it. And his pipe – still smells rank. And this picture – an angel. I looked at that before fust three come – didn’t seem to do much good. Think we could get this china dog in? Aunt Sadie brought it from the St. Louis fair. See? Wrote right on it. No, I guess not. Here’s a letter my brother wrote the day before he died. Here’s an old time hat. These feathers – never got to use them. No, there isn’t room.
How can we live without our lives? How will we know it’s us without our past? No. Leave it. Burn it.
They sat and looked at it and burned it into their memories. How’ll it be not to know what land’s outside the door?
And that’s where I was right then – burning the past, trying to forget the things that had shaped me.
It’s where I am right now – not sure of the land that’s outside my door.