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The most private of men writes a diary, keeping it current on each day he actually sits down to work on a novel which would become The Grapes of Wrath. Keeping a journal was something John Steinbeck had attempted in the past to no avail. But it is our great fortune that he succeeded at the most important time of his life to practice the discipline that not only earned him great literary rewards but also secured his memory in our American consciousness.

This journal is one of the best literary works I have ever read as Steinbeck’s truth rings loud and clear, his desperation both real and imminent, and the personal frustrations of being a writer not only presented in fact but written upon us with his blood. What initiated two summers ago for me in my first reading of Travels with Charley was a new interest in the person John Steinbeck, more so than even his fictions. Though extremely controversial and outspoken, Steinbeck valued his privacy and solitude. He kept few friends, but those he did have were close and of like mind. The emotional pain he suffered in his amorous relationships is made all too clear in this journal written at a time of both great literary achievement and the impending failure of a marriage between two people seemingly highly suited to one another’s goals in life. It is unfortunate that the physical and passionate side of this relationship could not be redeemed and saved. But Steinbeck left this wife for another ill-fated lover who became his second wife and ultimately the mother of his children.

The journal takes place at a time in the world of beating war drums, fascism, and Hitler’s rise for world dominance and destruction. Meanwhile Steinbeck was struggling with fame and the pressure coming from the needy of every stripe. And as he was attempting to write what would become his greatest novel, his new neighbors were irritating the life out of him with their hammering and radios being played so loudly he could not think. But as disagreeable as this was to him it all helped to shape his diary into a fascinating window for peering into the life of a most interesting man of letters. I truly hated for this book to end. But it did, and what was finally and forcefully gleaned from this exercise was his firm belief in the importance discipline plays to any writer of note. ( )