The Wayward Bus

John Steinbeck

Back in the bus he had felt, in anticipation, a bursting orgasmic delight of freedom. But it was not so. He felt miserable. His shoulders ached, and now that he was relaxed and stretched out he wasn't sleepy. He wondered, "Won't I ever be happy? Isn't there anything to do?" He tried to remember old times when it seemed to him that he was happy, when he had felt pure joy, and little pictures came into his mind. There was a very early morning with chill air and the sun was coming up behind the mountains and in a muddy road little gray birds were hopping. There wasn't any reason for joy, but it had been there.

And another. It was evening and a shining horse was rubbing his lovely neck on a fence and the quail were calling and there was a sound of dropping water somewhere. his breath came short with excitement just remembering it.
And another. He road in an old cart with a girl cousin. She was older than he--he couldn't remember what she looked like. The horse shied at a piece of paper and she fell against him, and to right herself she put out her hand and touched his leg, and delight bloomed in his stomach and his brain ached with delight.
And another. Standing at midnight in a great, dim cathedral with a sharp, barbaric smell of copal smarting his nose. He held a skinny little candle with a white silk bow tied about it halfway up. And like a dream, the sweet murmur of the mass came from far away at the high altar and the drowsy loveliness drew down over him.

I find that when I read Steinbeck, I tend to quote large chunks of him. This is well though, for if anyone were ever worth quoting it is this man who knows so well the human heart. Perhaps the one thing which keeps drawing me back to Steinbeck is this ominous feeling I get during certain descriptions of his--I feel as if he were described my inmost soul, those feelings that you think are yours and yours alone which no one else ever sees. Steinbeck knew his own heart well enough to capture simply and accurately on paper the feelings, the great wellings of emotion that every person is subject too.
The Wayward Bus is less well known than other books he has written but still deserves acclaim. It operates off such a simple and beautiful plot, one would have thought it never needed telling--indeed many of the stories Steinbeck tells never actually need or even deserve telling; it is the manner in which he goes about telling them that makes essential stories about life--there is a small bus station in the middle of a large valley of farmland. Few characters mingle here and there is the daily run which the bus driver must make down to the town. Who would have imagined such a story could become an intriguing, gripping, even startling tale?
Reading The Wayward Bus is like shoving your hands deep into moist dirt and pulling up handfuls of the stuff to let it crumble away and be ground into your fingers. Steinbeck is one of the few authors of the twentieth century who has not forgotten that he is dust and to dust he shall return. Steinbeck has a more intricate link with the soil, the leaves and bugs than any other writer I have read. It shows in his writing--his characters are often more primeval than we find in our day.
The Wayward Bus is a quick read and it will be pleasant. It can be a long read and teach you more than pleasantries. Be careful though, Steinbeck might turn you into a dryiad or a fawn, or worse, a man who can feel the dirt and smell it and take joy in this.