A book has never made me want to be friends with an author so much before. Although I did not find myself agreeing with every one of Steinbeck’s sentiments, like the author himself, I appreciated hearing a different perspective. As the book went on, I began to wish I had been alive in the U.S. in 1960, had encountered Steinbeck in Rocinante on the side of the highway, and had stopped inside for a talk over a special cup of Steinbeck’s coffee and to pet Charley in that special spot behind his ear.
Is it odd that I was a little panicked that the dog would die by the end? (Spoiler: He doesn’t.) But you wouldn’t give me a book where the dog dies, right, Dorothy?
My own Charley accompanied me as I read this book. I’ve returned to my parents’ home for Christmas, and their dog seeks to monopolize my attention while I read. My reading may slow as it is hard to ignore a toy shoved in your face for a game of tug of war or fetch.
Books Read: 12