John Steinbeck’s The Winter of Our Discontent was June’s selection for The Mules, my all-male book club. I’ve always had the impression that Steinbeck is solidly ensconced in the pantheon of American novelists and that he represents the era when the best writers were defining what an American novel could or should be.

As pointed out by GG, one of our younger members, the title of the book comes from the first two lines of Shakespeare’s Richard III, a soliloquy by the Duke of Gloucester (the future King Richard III):

Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York

(If you’re interested, you can read the entire soliloquy in the P.S., below.)

When I read Richard III in college, and then in graduate school, I was always slightly troubled by this soliloquy. I thought it was beautiful and thus worthy of my attention. So, I parsed and pondered the lines a dozen times, and was able to appreciate the cleverness of Gloucester’s words.

I eventually arrived at a Cliff Notes-level understanding of their purpose: to very succinctly introduce three of the principal characters and Gloucester’s hamartia (his tragic, fatal flaw). But I always felt that there was something more. Reading The Winter of Our Discontent filled in the blanks for me.

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The Winter of Our Discontent

By John Steinbeck

292 pages

Published in 1961 by The Viking Press

Reissued in 2008 by Penguin Classics

The Plot: Ethan Allen Hawley, a former member of Long Island’s Great Gatsby class, works in a grocery store that his father lost, along with the rest of the family fortune, leaving his children to fend for themselves among America’s working class.

On the surface, Ethan maintains an air of equanimity and good humor. But he is understandably piqued when his wife and children are resentful of their social status and financial limitations. He’s even more disturbed when they seem to devalue the virtues of honesty and integrity that he sees imbedded in his family name.

As the plot unfolds, Ethan’s grasp on his sense of status and his self-respect weaken by degrees. Eventually, he takes revenge against his fate by becoming everything he inveighs against.

There are plenty of connections here to Shakespeare’s Richard III. So, Ethan is Gloucester. His physical stature is long and lean, but his social stature has been diminished due to losing the family store. He is reduced to clerking for it, with all the associated humiliations. He is proud. He is envious. And he acts ruthlessly to recapture his standing.

But the final act is ambiguous. The story ends before Ethan takes the final, tragic action. And that is what makes it a tragedy in the modern sense.

In these ways and several others (pointed out below), The Winter of Our Discontent is a classic modern American tragedy.

 

What I liked about it: The development of the principal theme – that all humans, even (or perhaps especially) those of us that view ourselves as honest and decent and ethical, are subject to moral corruption. And that the erosion of character comes from many places: society at large, the culture of our family, and most of all our own hubris.

I liked, too, the classical Greek idea that these moral weaknesses can be passed down from one generation to the next. You see it here with Ethan’s son.

It has been years since I last read Steinbeck, so I had forgotten, but was happily reminded of, the simple, lyric strength of his dialog. Steinbeck has his characters speaking in starts and partial phrases – like people do in real life. But what they say is meaningful and often musical. That gives the reading of the book a second level of pleasure.

And finally, I was also happily surprised by the content of the dialog on economics – particularly between Ethan and his boss. It was not the sort of simple leftist screed I was expecting from a famed lefty like Steinbeck. It was actually nuanced and complex and truer to life.

What I didn’t like so much: I was a little disturbed by the experimentation with the narration. The book is broken into two parts. Each starts with third-person narration and then switches to first-person. There is even a chapter written in the voice of Ethan’s wife’s friend, and, in Chapter 11, the use of an omniscient narrator. This didn’t spoil the book for me, but it was a distraction.

What I didn’t understand: Ethan treats his wife with equal doses of affection and condescension. And she responds as a good and subservient wife should: with acceptance or, at best, gentle resistance. Did Steinbeck not realize how this diminished the character of Ethan? How it made him less sympathetic? I’d like to think he did – that he saw this character flaw as just another symptom of Ethan’s unmerited sense of pride and victimhood. But I’m not sure. The Winter of Our Discontent was written in the 1950s. It could have been meant to endear Ethan to the reader.

 My overall judgement: This is a very good book for many reasons, especially because Steinbeck had the ambition of writing a modern tragedy – with all the important Aristotelean elements, but in a modern (circa 1950) context.

 

Contemporary Praise 

“In this brief presentation it is not possible to dwell at any length on individual works which Steinbeck later produced. If at times the critics have seemed to note certain signs of flagging powers, of repetitions that might point to a decrease in vitality, Steinbeck belied their fears most emphatically with The Winter of Our Discontent. … Here he attained the same standard which he set in The Grapes of Wrath. Again he holds his position as an independent expounder of the truth with an unbiased instinct for what is genuinely American, be it good or bad.” (Anders Osterling, Secretary of the Swedish Academy that awards the Nobel Prize for Literature)

“John Steinbeck returns to the high standards of The Grapes of Wrath and to the social themes that made his early work so impressive, and so powerful.”  (Saul Bellow)

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Richard III by William Shakespeare

ACT I

SCENE I. London. A street.

Enter GLOUCESTER, solus

GLOUCESTER

Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lour’d upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visaged war hath smooth’d his wrinkled front;
And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
He capers nimbly in a lady’s chamber
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;
I, that am rudely stamp’d, and want love’s majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtail’d of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deformed, unfinish’d, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;
Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun
And descant on mine own deformity:
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,
To entertain these fair well-spoken days,
I am determined to prove a villain
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,
By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams,
To set my brother Clarence and the king
In deadly hate the one against the other:
And if King Edward be as true and just
As I am subtle, false and treacherous,
This day should Clarence closely be mew’d up,
About a prophecy, which says that ‘G’
Of Edward’s heirs the murderer shall be.

Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here

Clarence comes.

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