John Steinbeck Quotes

The new American finds his challenge and his love in the traffic-choked streets, skies nested in smog, choking with the acids of industry, the screech of rubber and houses leashed in against one another while the town lets wither a time and die

John Steinbeck

The comfortable people in tight houses felt pity at first, and then distaste, and finally hatred for the migrant people.

John Steinbeck

I hate cameras. They are so much more sure than I am about everything.

John Steinbeck

The writer must believe that what he is doing is the most important thing in the world. And he must hold to this illusion even when he knows it is not true.

John Steinbeck

One can find so many pains when the rain is falling.

John Steinbeck

I've lived in good climate, and it bores the hell out of me. I like weather rather than climate

John Steinbeck

The discipline of the written word punishes both stupidity and dishonesty.

John Steinbeck

Where does discontent start? You are warm enough, but you shiver. You are fed, yet hunger gnaws you. You have been loved, but your yearning wanders in new fields. And to prod all these there's time, the Bastard Time.

John Steinbeck

Its a hard thing to leave any deeply routine life, even if you hate it

John Steinbeck

It is true that we are weak and sick and ugly and quarrelsome but if that is all we ever were, we would millenniums ago have disappeared from the face of the earth.

John Steinbeck

All great and precious things are lonely.

John Steinbeck

No one wants advice - only corroboration.

John Steinbeck

The impulse of the American woman to geld her husband and castrate her sons is very strong.

John Steinbeck

I've seen a look in dogs' eyes, a quickly vanishing look of amazed contempt, and I am convinced that basically dogs think humans are nuts.

John Steinbeck

I hold that a writer who does not passionately believe in the perfectibility of man has no dedication nor any membership in literature.

John Steinbeck

The river with its mask of trees cut a twisting path down through the valley. Two miles away he could see, beside a gigantic lonely oak, the white speck of his tent pitched and left while he went to record his homestead. A long time he sat there. AS he looked into the valley, Joseph felt his body flushing with a hot flluid of love. "This is mine," he said simply, and his eyes sparkled with tears and his brain was filled with wonder that this should be his. There was pity in him for the grass and the flowers; he felt that the trees were his children and the land his child. For a moment he seemed to float high in the air and to look down upon it. "It's mine," he said again, " and I must take care of it.

John Steinbeck
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