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East of Eden
Mountaineers · 10th–12th
Lee says, “All great and precious things are lonely.” Is the loneliness Adam feels on the draft board the same as Aron’s loneliness at Stanford?
The tension Adam feels “like a hanging judge who hates the gallows” and tells Henry that a man “couldn’t let his own go free,” while ninety miles away Aron cuts the university out, retreats to a furnished room, and dreams of the ranch where “He could hide from ugliness—in the evening.”
Two rooms far apart, a draft-board office in Salinas and a furnished room in Palo Alto, and what each man does with a weight he did not expect.
In the Trask house next to Reynaud’s Bakery, Lee and Adam put up a map of the western front with lines of colored pins. When Mr. Kelly dies, Adam is appointed to the draft board in his place. He remembers his own war only as frozen pictures. He works hard and sadly, feels that the young men he passes are under sentence of death, and, knowing he is weak, grows more stern, takes the lists home and calls on the families. Henry Stanton, his associate on the board, who likes fun, tells him to relax and follow the rules, and says Adam passes boys he could be talked into letting off. Adam says it is the choices that get him: he passed Judge Kendal’s boy, who was killed in training. When Adam wonders how long the war will last, Henry sees what he fears. Henry has only girls; Adam has sons, though Henry says it is a long time before they will be called up. Adam says he would resign rather than judge his own, because a man could not let his own go free. Henry asks after Aron at Stanford, and Adam says he is doing fine, though he writes that it is hard, and will be home for Thanksgiving. Henry praises Cal, and Adam answers that Cal did not take college tests a year ahead. When Henry says the army must have been a good experience, Adam takes his hat and says good night. Walking home, Adam meets Lee coming out of the bakery with a loaf of French bread. In the kitchen he asks whether they are responsible if a boy they send is killed. Lee asks whether it is responsibility or blame that bothers him, and says responsibility can be worse. Adam asks for the word that he, Lee and Sam Hamilton once talked about. Lee gives it, timshel, and says it set Sam free, separate from every other man. Adam says that is lonely; Lee says all great and precious things are lonely; Adam asks for the word again, and Lee answers, “thou mayest.” Adam looks forward to Thanksgiving, boasts about Aron, and thinks of a real celebration. At Stanford, Aron is miserable. He had pictured a white temple and shining students in an endless evening, and found sandstone, varnished pine, fraternities and youths in dirty corduroy. Homesick, he leaves the dormitory for a furnished room in Palo Alto, goes to his classes and leaves, and dreams of home: the house warm, Lee a friend and counselor, his father like a god, his brother delightful, and Abra an immaculate dream he falls in love with. Each night he writes her a letter confessing and renouncing every evil thought, and goes to bed purified; the letters make Abra uneasy. He knows he has made a mistake but cannot yet reverse himself. He makes a compact with himself: at Thanksgiving he will go home and be sure, and he might never come back. The chapter ends on his dream of the ranch Abra once suggested, with Abra waiting under a tree in the evening, where he could hide from ugliness.
Read the chapter yourself before the lesson. It is set during the First World War, after America has begun drafting men into the army. A draft board decided which local young men were fit to be sent and which could be let off for a disability or another reason. To “pass” a man is to send him; to “reject” him is to keep him out of the army. So when Adam says he could not reject his own sons, he means he could not keep them out. The western front was the long line of trenches across France and Belgium. A saber is a cavalry sword and its scabbard the sheath; a carbine is a short rifle; so Adam fought on horseback. Timshel is the word Lee, Adam and Sam Hamilton once talked over, earlier in the book; in this chapter Lee reads it as “thou mayest,” old English for you may. Let that reading stand as Lee’s; the chapter does not settle the word. Leland Stanford University stands beside Palo Alto, south of San Francisco. Gustave Doré was a French artist of the nineteenth century whose engravings illustrated Dante’s great poem; the Inferno is its first part, the journey through Hell. Fraternities are student clubs. Cal is Aron’s twin brother, and Abra is the girl Aron means to marry. Henry uses one mild curse (“a damn bit of good”), and “sour-pussed” is slang for sulky. The paragraph on Aron’s letters speaks of “sexual love” and of his “sexuality”; whoever reads aloud should know it is coming. Keep the outcome out: the chapter does not say what Aron will do at Thanksgiving or whether Adam’s sons will ever be called. A teacher who has read on knows more; keep it out of the talk. Slow down twice: in the office, from “Henry inspected him shrewdly” to “A man couldn’t let his own go free.”, and from “Aron, who had not known he had a home, was nauseatingly homesick.” to the end.
Retell The student tells the chapter back, from the map of pins to Aron’s ranch in the evening. Look for the order: the map and Adam’s appointment; his frozen war pictures; his stern, sad work on the board; Henry’s advice, Judge Kendal’s boy, the talk of sons, Cal and the army; the walk home and the bread; the kitchen talk of blame, responsibility and timshel; Adam’s plans for Thanksgiving; Aron’s picture of the university and what he found; the furnished room, the dream of home and the nightly letters; the mistake, the compact and the ranch. Look for nothing added about what Aron will do at Thanksgiving. Then ask which sentence the student thinks joins the chapter’s two halves.
Imitate the author After copying, the student writes two short passages in the manner of these. The first is five sentences about a memory that has gone still: one long sentence that names the event, renames it after a dash with two nouns joined by “and,” and turns on “but”; one short, plain sentence; one that lists five sharp details after a comma, moving from what was seen to what was heard; one short sentence opening on “But”; and one that says what the details lack and, after a dash, says what they are like, adding a last judgment after “and.” The second is six sentences about a place pictured before it was seen: one long sentence with a short aside between two dashes, ending on a time of day; one joined by “and” three times with no comma, ending on the same time of day; one that guesses, after a dash and “perhaps,” where the picture came from; a short sentence saying the real place was not like that; a list with no main verb, its four items split by semicolons, the last after “and”; and a sentence opening on “And” that sets the real thing against a word from the dream. Read both aloud beside Steinbeck’s.
Debate Take sides on the first written question. One side argues the board changes Adam’s frozen pictures. It gathers “worked hard and honestly and sadly,” the “sentence of death,” the “hanging judge who hates the gallows,” Judge Kendal’s boy, and Adam’s leaving when Henry calls the army “a good experience.” The other side argues it does not. It gathers the choosing and the talk of his own sons as the real source of the feeling, his flat “I went into the army,” and his leaving rather than talking. Each side must answer the other’s strongest piece. Neither may say that Adam’s sons will be called up.
Purpose Close on the chapter’s design. It has two halves that never meet: a father at a desk in Salinas and a son in a furnished room. Both men carry pictures from books: Adam’s war is “illustrations in the pages of a book,” and Aron’s college comes “perhaps from the Doré illustrations.” Between the two halves stands Lee’s kitchen and one word. Ask what the chapter gains by never putting Adam and Aron in the same room. Name the habit it practises: reading two stories side by side and asking what each one says about the other.
Easier Read section 2 aloud together, from “Walking home, Adam pondered his responsibility.” to Lee’s last answer. Talk through the third and fourth discussion questions, then answer the last written question aloud before writing it.
On level Talk through all six discussion questions in order, then write the three written questions as a thesis, the strongest objection and a revised thesis, each with lines from the chapter.
Harder Ask for one argued essay on what the chapter suggests about the difference between a picture of something and the thing itself. Use Adam’s frozen war, the board and Judge Kendal’s boy, Lee’s word, Aron’s white temple and the sandstone, his nightly letters and the ranch. Meet the strongest objection, that Adam too changes his absent son “the way any man changes someone he loves,” and argue from this chapter alone.
1. Henry tells Adam, “You pass boys I could be talked into letting off.” Which of the two men is the fairer judge?Moral reasoning
What it asks It asks the student to weigh two ways of doing the same hard job. Adam “could not get over the feeling that the young men he passed to the army were under sentence of death,” and yet “because he knew he was weak, he grew more and more stern and painstaking and much less likely to accept an excuse or a borderline disability.” He takes the lists home and calls on the boys’ families. Henry tells him, “Just follow the rules and relax,” and then says plainly that Adam is the harder of the two. The man who suffers most over the boys is the stricter judge. The question feeds the hinge: Adam carries each choice by his “own judgment of the merits,” and no rule carries it for him. The answer should not say that Adam’s sons will be called up; Henry raises that only as a fear.
Adam. He knows pity could make him soft, so he holds every boy to the same line. Henry admits he “could be talked into” letting boys off, and a judge who can be talked into things is not fair to the boys who cannot talk. Adam’s extra work, the lists at home and the calls on families, is care, not coldness.
He took the lists home with him, called on parents, in fact, did much more work than was expected of him.
And because he knew he was weak, he grew more and more stern and painstaking and much less likely to accept an excuse or a borderline disability.
Henry. A borderline case is just where doubt should go to the boy, when Adam himself feels the army may be a sentence of death. Adam’s sternness answers his own weakness, not anything about the boys: he guards himself, and they pay for it. Henry follows the rules and has nothing to prove.
He could not get over the feeling that the young men he passed to the army were under sentence of death.
You pass boys I could be talked into letting off.
A strong answer A strong response names the fairer judge and grounds it in the paragraph about Adam’s work and in Henry’s line. One reader chooses Adam: knowing he is weak, he holds every boy to one standard and cannot be “talked into” anything. Another chooses Henry: a borderline case is where doubt should go to the boy, and Adam’s sternness guards Adam more than it serves the boys. The best answers notice that the stricter judge is the one who suffers more.
2. Henry likes fun and keeps away from anything serious. Yet he is the one who says aloud what Adam fears about his own sons. Does that leave Adam any less alone with it?Character
What it asks It asks the student to judge what Henry’s seeing is worth to Adam. The narrator says Henry “liked fun—needed it.” His advice is a few drinks and a movie. Yet when Adam says, “I wonder how long it will last?” Henry “inspected him shrewdly” and answers softly that he sees what Adam means. Adam looks at him “startled” and demands to be told. Henry names what Adam has not said: “I was just wondering how I’d feel if I had to pass on my own sons.” He agrees with Adam (“you’re right. A man couldn’t.”) with a face the narrator calls “querulous” and at once asks about Aron. The question keeps Henry from being only comic: he sees what Adam fears before Adam says it. It feeds the hinge by asking whether Adam’s weight can be shared at all, before Lee says in the kitchen that great things are lonely. The answer should not say that Adam’s sons will be called up; Henry raises it as a fear. Keep the comparison with Aron for the last written question.
Yes, for a moment. Henry is sharper and kinder than his talk of drinks and movies. He reads Adam “shrewdly” and speaks “softly.” He owns his own luck in having only girls, and then he agrees in plain words. For the space of a few lines, two fathers hold the same fear.
Henry inspected him shrewdly and took a pencil from his stuffed vest pocket and rubbed the eraser against his big white front teeth.
you’re right. A man couldn’t.
No. Henry sees the fear and then backs away from it. His face is “querulous,” and the narrator says he avoids anything serious because he takes it for sorrow. He turns at once to Aron and Cal, and ends by calling the army “a good experience.” Adam takes his hat and carries the weight home to Lee. Being seen is not the same as being helped.
Henry liked fun and avoided when he could any solemn or serious matter, for he confused these with sorrow.
How’s Aron doing at Stanford?
A strong answer A strong response decides whether Henry’s seeing eases Adam’s load and grounds it in the office talk. One reader says yes, for a moment: Henry reads Adam “shrewdly” and speaks softly, and he agrees in so many words: “you’re right. A man couldn’t.” Another says no: Henry’s face is “querulous” and he turns at once to Aron, and Adam carries the weight home to Lee. The best answers notice that Henry, who runs from anything serious, is the one who names the fear, and they do not claim the sons will be called.
3. Lee says responsibility “doesn’t carry any pleasant egotism.” What could be pleasant about blame?Theme
What it asks It asks the student to make sense of a distinction Lee draws at the kitchen table. Adam asks, “suppose we send a boy to the army and he is killed, are we responsible?” Lee answers with his own question: “Is it responsibility or blame that bothers you?” Adam says, “I don’t want blame.” Lee: “Sometimes responsibility is worse. It doesn’t carry any pleasant egotism.” Lee implies that blame does, and the question asks what that could be. It feeds the hinge: blame puts a man at the center, and responsibility may be the lonelier thing. The talk should not settle what timshel means.
Blame makes you important. To be the one at fault is to be the center of the story, the man things turned on, and that is the egotism. Adam already feels cast in a large part, a hanging judge. Responsibility gives him no part to play, only the next choice.
Sometimes responsibility is worse. It doesn’t carry any pleasant egotism.
He felt like a hanging judge who hates the gallows.
Blame can be finished. It belongs to one act, and it can be confessed, punished or forgiven, and then it is over. Responsibility goes on with every list and every boy, and no one can take it off you. “I don’t want blame” may be the wish to be cleared, when what Adam carries home cannot be cleared.
I don’t want blame.
Walking home, Adam pondered his responsibility.
A strong answer A strong response says what could be pleasant in blame and grounds it in the kitchen talk. One reader says blame makes a man important, the center of the story, which is what “egotism” means. Another says blame can be confessed and finished, while responsibility goes on with every new list. The best answers notice that Adam says only “I don’t want blame,” and leave the meaning of the word he asks for next open.
4. Adam has already said the word timshel aloud. What makes him ask for it again at the end of their talk?Character
What it asks It asks the student to notice that Adam asks for the word twice. It is Adam, not Lee, who brings it up: “What was that word?” Lee gives it, and Adam repeats it and asks for the rest. Lee says the word “carried a man’s greatness if he wanted to take advantage of it,” that it set Sam Hamilton free, and that “It gave him the right to be a man, separate from every other man.” Adam answers, “That’s lonely.” After Lee’s reply he asks, “What is the word again?” Lee answers, “thou mayest,” and the section ends with no reply from Adam. The question keeps the word tied to the draft-board choices that make Adam ask for it, not a slogan. It feeds the hinge without asking it. The answer should not give the word a final meaning; Lee gives his reading, and Adam asks for the word twice.
He wants to hold on to it. He remembers that the word made Sam Hamilton glad, and he wants that for himself. He asks again the way a person asks for a name he means to keep, to carry back to the board and the lists.
I remember Sam Hamilton felt good about it.
I said that word carried a man’s greatness if he wanted to take advantage of it.
The word has slipped. Lee’s freedom, “separate from every other man,” sounds to Adam like what the board has already done to him, and he answers, “That’s lonely.” He asks again as if to test whether the word still means what he hoped when he walked in. The second asking shows the word has not settled in him.
It gave him the right to be a man, separate from every other man.
What is the word again?
A strong answer A strong response explains the second asking from the talk itself. One reader says Adam wants to keep the word that Sam Hamilton “felt good about,” to carry back to the board. Another says Lee’s “separate from every other man” sounds to Adam like his own loneliness, and he asks again as if testing the word. The best answers notice that Adam brought the word up himself and that the section ends without his reply, and they leave the word’s meaning open.
5. Aron finds the “natural noise and fuss and horseplay” of the students horrifying. How much of Stanford, as the narrator shows it, deserves that word?Character
What it asks It asks the student to test Aron’s word against the narrator’s picture. The narrator gives Stanford plainly: sandstone in a hayfield, a mosaic church, varnished pine, “the great world of struggle and anger re-enacted in the rise and fall of fraternities,” and students “in dirty corduroy trousers, some study-raddled and some learning the small vices of their fathers.” In one sentence the narrator calls the noise “natural,” Aron finds it “horrifying,” and the sentence ends “after his dream.” The question guards against making Aron simply weak: the narrator also calls him “nauseatingly homesick,” a boy “who had not known he had a home.” It feeds the hinge by asking whether Aron’s loneliness comes from the place or from the picture he brought to it. The answer should not say whether Aron will leave college.
Very little. The narrator’s own words for Stanford are plain, even kind: sandstone, a mosaic front, varnished pine, dirty corduroy. He calls the noise “natural.” The horror is in the comparison, and the sentence says so: “after his dream.” The picture was “never really inspected,” so nothing real could have matched it.
He found the natural noise and fuss and horseplay of undergraduates horrifying, after his dream.
His picture—never really inspected—had been of clean-eyed young men and immaculate girls, all in academic robes and converging on a white temple on the crown of a wooded hill in the evening.
More than it seems. The narrator does not say Stanford is innocent. He puts “the great world of struggle and anger” there in small, and the students are learning “the small vices of their fathers.” A boy who wants purity came looking for a temple and found the world he hoped to be lifted out of. For him that is a real ugliness, not an invented one.
A formal square of brown sandstone blocks set down in a hayfield; a church with an Italian mosaic front; classrooms of varnished pine; and the great world of struggle and anger re-enacted in the rise and fall of fraternities.
And those bright angels were youths in dirty corduroy trousers, some study-raddled and some learning the small vices of their fathers.
A strong answer A strong response judges Aron’s word against the narrator’s picture. One reader says little deserves it: the narrator calls the noise “natural,” and the horror comes “after his dream.” Another says “the great world of struggle and anger” and “the small vices of their fathers” are really there, and a boy who wants purity has found what he hoped to escape. The best answers keep Aron’s homesickness in view and do not say what he will do.
6. In Aron’s dream of college it was “never any time but evening.” Why does Steinbeck set the dream of the ranch in the evening too?Author's choice
What it asks It asks the student to notice one hour that keeps coming back. Aron pictured a white temple “on the crown of a wooded hill in the evening,” and “it was never any time but evening.” His new dream of the ranch closes the same way: Abra stands under a tree, “waiting for him to come in from his work. And it was evening.” The chapter’s last sentence puts the hour after a dash: “He could hide from ugliness—in the evening.” His letters, too, come “At night when his studying was over.” The question guards against making Aron simply weak: the same hour can be read as a hiding place or as rest. It feeds the hinge by asking what shelter Aron’s dreams give him, and when. The answer should not say what Aron will do at Thanksgiving; he only makes “a compact with himself.”
A hiding light. Evening is the hour when things are seen dimly, and both dreams need that. The college picture was “never really inspected,” and it did not survive the real place. The last sentence says so with its dash: Aron could hide from ugliness only “in the evening.” The hour is a limit, and the day comes back.
He could hide from ugliness—in the evening.
His picture—never really inspected—had been of clean-eyed young men and immaculate girls, all in academic robes and converging on a white temple on the crown of a wooded hill in the evening.
A time of rest. Evening is when the day’s work is done, and the ranch dream has a working day in it: Abra waits for Aron “to come in from his work,” and the narrator adds “after work of course.” What Aron wants is peace at the end of a day, not a way out of the day. The hour shows a homesick boy’s wish for home, not only a wish to hide.
There, after work of course, he could live in purity and peace with the world, cut off by the little draw.
He could see Abra there, standing under a tree, waiting for him to come in from his work.
A strong answer A strong response explains the hour from the chapter’s own evenings. One reader says evening is a hiding light: the college picture was “never really inspected,” and the last sentence lets Aron hide from ugliness only “in the evening,” after a dash that marks a limit. Another says evening is the hour of rest, and the ranch dream has work in it, “after work of course,” so the hour shows a homesick boy’s wish for peace. The best answers weigh the dash in the last sentence and do not say what Aron will do.
1. There is “no motion or emotion” in Adam’s memories of his own war. How far does his work on the draft board change that?
What it asks It asks the student to test the frozen pictures against the rest of section 1. Adam’s war, “a little war of maneuver and butchery,” survives only as “Certain sharp pictures,” and “There was no motion or emotion in them—illustrations in the pages of a book, and not very well drawn.” On the board he works “hard and honestly and sadly,” feels the young men he passes are “under sentence of death,” feels “like a hanging judge who hates the gallows,” and names one boy who died. At the end Henry says the army is “a good experience” and bets Adam “wouldn’t take a good bit for the experience.” Adam stands up, takes his hat from the deer horns, and says only “Good night, Henry.” The frozen pictures should not be skipped: the question turns on them.
A long way. The war now has a name, Judge Kendal’s boy, and he is more real to Adam than the “man’s face” in his memory ever was. Adam works “sadly” and cannot get over the sentence of death. When Henry calls the army a good experience, Adam walks out: he can no longer hear his war called good.
Adam worked hard and honestly and sadly.
I passed Judge Kendal’s boy and he was killed in training.
Hardly at all. What moves Adam is the choosing, and the thought of his own sons, not his own war. When college comes up, he says only that he went into the army, and when Henry calls that a good experience he leaves rather than talk. The pictures stay as they were, and the feeling comes from somewhere else.
I went into the army.
Adam stood up slowly and picked his hat from the deer horns on the wall.
A strong answer A strong response states a thesis on how far the frozen pictures change, meets the strongest objection, and revises. One thesis says the board changes them: the war has a name now, Judge Kendal’s boy, and Adam will not stay to hear it called “a good experience.” The strongest objection is that the feeling comes from choosing, not from memory; when the army comes up, Adam says only “I went into the army,” and leaves. A good revision might say the board moves Adam without yet moving his memories. The best answers do not say that his sons will be called up.
2. Each night Aron goes to bed “purified” after his letter to Abra. In it he writes down every evil thought he has and swears it off. What, if anything, has he given up?
What it asks It asks the student to weigh Aron’s nightly letter. “At night when his studying was over he went to his nightly letter to her as one goes to a scented bath.” As Abra in his mind grows “more radiant, more pure and beautiful,” Aron takes “an increasing joy in a concept of his own wickedness.” He pours “joyous abjectness on paper” and goes to bed “purified.” The letters “dripped with longing” and “made Abra very uneasy,” and the narrator adds that Aron’s sexuality “had taken a not unusual channel.” Students may bring in Lee’s “pleasant egotism” from the kitchen. The answer should not make Aron simply weak or a hypocrite, and should not claim Abra knows more than the letters show her.
Nothing. The giving up is itself the pleasure: a “scented bath,” a “joyous” abjectness, a joy in his own wickedness that grows as Abra grows purer. He renounces his thoughts each night and has new ones the next. Nothing in his days changes; he goes to classes and leaves as soon as he can.
And as Abra became more radiant, more pure and beautiful, Aron took an increasing joy in a concept of his own wickedness.
At night when his studying was over he went to his nightly letter to her as one goes to a scented bath.
Something real. He is a homesick boy, alone, holding on to the person he means to be. Setting down every evil thought and turning from it is real work for someone who believes in purity. The narrator calls the channel his feeling took “not unusual,” which is not the word for a fraud.
He set down every evil thought he had and renounced it.
She could not know that Aron’s sexuality had taken a not unusual channel.
A strong answer A strong response takes a position on what, if anything, Aron gives up, meets the strongest objection, and revises. One thesis says nothing: the renouncing is the pleasure, “a scented bath,” and he takes “an increasing joy in a concept of his own wickedness.” The strongest objection is that he does set down “every evil thought” and turn from it, and the narrator calls the channel “not unusual,” not a fraud. A good revision might say he gives up the thoughts but keeps himself at the center. The best answers do not make Aron simply weak or a hypocrite.
3. Lee says, “All great and precious things are lonely.” Is the loneliness Adam feels on the draft board the same as Aron’s loneliness at Stanford?
What it asks It asks the chapter’s own question. In the kitchen Lee says the word set Sam Hamilton free: “It gave him the right to be a man, separate from every other man.” Adam answers, “That’s lonely,” and Lee says, “All great and precious things are lonely.” Adam has felt “like a hanging judge who hates the gallows,” says the choices get him “when there’s a choice, and it’s my own judgment of the merits,” and tells Henry he would resign rather than judge his own sons: “A man couldn’t let his own go free.” At Stanford, Aron is “nauseatingly homesick.” He “did not try to learn the life around him or to enter it,” leaves the dormitory for “a dreary furnished room,” and dreams of a ranch where “He could hide from ugliness—in the evening.” The answer should not say what Aron will do at Thanksgiving, that Adam’s sons will be called up, or what timshel finally means.
Not the same. Adam’s loneliness is the kind Lee calls great: it comes from carrying a choice no rule or friend can carry for him. Aron’s comes from hiding: he cuts the university out and builds a dream in a furnished room. One is the price of choosing; the other is a way of not meeting the real.
But, Henry, it’s when there’s a choice, and it’s my own judgment of the merits, that’s when it gets me.
In the new and neutral hiding place he cut the university out, went to his classes and left as soon as he could, to live in his new-found memories.
The same, or close to it. Aron, too, is alone with a choice: he has “made a mistake,” can admit it, and makes “a compact with himself” that no one shares. And Adam, too, has his pictures and his way out: he would resign, and he has changed his absent son into someone to boast about. Each carries something that no one else can carry for him.
He made a compact with himself.
Even though Aron had been away such a short time Adam had forgotten him and changed him the way any man changes someone he loves.
A strong answer A strong response judges whether the two lonelinesses match, meets the strongest objection, and revises. One thesis says they differ: Adam’s comes from carrying a choice by “my own judgment of the merits,” while Aron’s comes from cutting the university out and hiding in a furnished room. The strongest objection is that Aron, too, makes “a compact with himself” that no one shares, and that Adam, too, changes the son he loves into a picture. A good revision might say both men are alone, but only one is alone with the real thing. The best answers keep both halves of the chapter in view and leave timshel’s meaning open.
His face was querulous.Complaining and fretful, like someone put out by a thing he would rather not face. Henry likes fun and avoids serious matters, and the talk of judging his own sons has pushed him into one. His face complains while his words agree: “you’re right. A man couldn’t.”
A formal square of brown sandstone blocks set down in a hayfield; a church with an Italian mosaic front; classrooms of varnished pine; and the great world of struggle and anger re-enacted in the rise and fall of fraternities.Acted out again, the way a play or an old battle is staged a second time. The narrator says the world’s “struggle and anger” plays again, in small, in the rise and fall of fraternities. Aron hoped for a temple set apart from the world; the word says the world was there too.
And those bright angels were youths in dirty corduroy trousers, some study-raddled and some learning the small vices of their fathers.Worn out and muddled by too much study. The word “raddled” means worn and confused, and Steinbeck joins it to “study” with a hyphen. Set against the “shining and dedicated” faces of Aron’s picture, it shows real students tired in an ordinary way.
In a frenzy he poured joyous abjectness on paper to send to her, and he went to bed purified, as a man is after sexual love.The state of making yourself low and humble, as someone does who begs forgiveness. Abjectness is usually miserable, and Steinbeck calls Aron’s “joyous.” The two words pull against each other, so the reader has to decide what kind of humbling this is.
He remembered the great oaks and the clear living air, the clean sage-laced wind from the hills and the brown oak leaves scudding.Moving fast and lightly before the wind, as clouds or small boats do. Aron’s memory of the ranch is full of clean, moving air, and the leaves scud across it. He dreams it from inside a “dreary furnished room.”