grows. We’ll start over.
But you can’t start. Only a baby can start. You and me — why, we’re all that’s been. The anger of a moment, the thousand pictures, that’s us. This land, this red land, is us; and the flood years and the dust years and the drought years are us. We can’t start again. The bitterness we sold to the junk man — he got it all right, but we have it still. And when the owner men told us to go, that’s us; and when the tractor hit the house, that’s us until we’re dead. To California or any place — every one a drum major leading a parade of hurts, marching with our bitterness. And some day — the armies of bitterness will all be going the same way. And they’ll all walk together, and there’ll be a dead terror from it.
The Grapes of Wrath. Featuring new 2021 illustrations
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John Steinbeck
