#15: The Grapes of Wrath (1939), by John Steinbeck

There is a crime here that goes beyond denunciation. There is a sorrow here that weeping cannot symbolize. There is a failure here that topples all our success.


Like most folks, I first encountered The Grapes of Wrath in high school. I loved it, but my appreciation was entirely surface-level, my 16-year-old antennae not yet tuned to the novel’s strident political implications.

Fast forward about 15 years, and I found myself quite nervous to re-visit it. How dated would this thing be?

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