The Pearl

John Steinbeck

Juana dragged herself up from the rocks on the edge of the water. Her face was a dull pain and her side ached. She steadied herself on her knees for a while and her wet skirt clung to her. There was no anger in her for Kino. He had said, "I am a man," and that meant certain things to Juana. It meant that he was half insane and half god. It meant that Kino would drive his strength against a mountain and plunge his strength against the sea. Juana, in her woman's soul, knew that the mountain would stand while the man broke himself; the sea would surge while the man drowned in it. And yet it was this thing that made him a man, half insane and half god, and Juana had need of a man; she could not live without a man. Although she might be puzzled by these differences between man and woman, she knew them and accepted them and needed them. Of course she would follow him, there was no question of that. Sometimes the quality of woman, the reason, the caution, the sense of preservation, could cut through Kino's manness and save them all. She climbed painfully to her feet, and she dipped her cupped palms in the little waves and washed her bruised face with the stinging salt water, and then she went creeping up the beach after Kino.

Stories are like houses. Some are made of mud bricks and some are made of wood and some are made of stone and are great big castles. Stories are good as they are; there are times we want a lean-to of a story and there are times we need a Victorian mansion. But Steinbeck has the faculty of using building materials more precious than most. The Pearl is a story made of delicate but solid granite timbers. Each sentence holds the weight of the world in it and each sentence will bear all the force you can push against it with.
The Pearl is like a parable and like a fable but has got more story than either.