It ain’t no secret that I listen to Three Dogs North.
So a few ‘casts back they were like, “Blah blah blah, East of Eden, John Steinbeck.”
And I was about to start a road trip so I skipped to ze library and looked for the audio version and, what do you know, lo and behold, a TWENTY-FIVE hour long dramatic reading. Twenty-two disks. Twenty-five hours. Commitment. Investment. It takes trust to jump into that kind of listening.
Apparently I trust the dogs enough though, because I checked that sucker out. (And again. And again. And now it’s due again. Thing is: even though I listen religiously every day on commutes, twenty-five is a lot of hours).
East of Eden is destroying me. Leaving no prisoners.
The storytelling is GRIPPING. I’m knee deep into a couple of centuries of folks Salinus Valley, California and, man, has it been a ride.
The other day I was driving down I-75, listening to these stories of life and living and dying and good but also ugly evil, but hearing how the good is a light to generations of people…and I was driving and straight bawling. Ugly-tears style, where I was heave-crying and leaking tears-and-snot listening to these people share life.
I cannot handle this.
Sometimes I write about books that have disappointed me. This is not that day. East of Eden. John Steinbeck.
Fair warning: it might destroy you.