Cannery Row Prologue by John Steinbeck

I spent last week in California roaming the central coast from a home base on Cannery Row in Monterey. You can’t avoid John Steinbeck in Monterey since several of his novels take place there, which brought Cannery Row to my attention and this marvelously drawn prologue:

Cannery Row in Monterey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream.  Cannery Row is the gathered and scattered, tin and iron and rust and splintered wood, chipped pavement and weedy lots and junk heaps, sardine canneries of corrugated iron, honky tonks, restaurants, and whore houses, and little crowded groceries, and laboratories and flophouses.  Its inhabitants are, as the man once said, “whores, pimps, gamblers, and sons of bitches,” by which he meant Everybody. Had the man looked through another peephole he might have said, “Saints and angels and martyrs, and holy men,” and he would have meant the same thing.

In the morning, when the sardine fleet has made a catch, the purse-seiners waddle heavily into the bay … Then cannery whistles scream and all over the town men and women scramble into their clothes and come running down to the Row to go to work.  Then shining cars bring the upper classes down: superintendents, accountants, owners who disappear into offices.  Then from the town pour Wops and Chinamen and Polaks, men and women in trousers and rubber coats and oilcloth aprons. They come running to clean and cut and pack and cook and can the fish.  The whole street rumbles and groans and screams and rattles while the silver rivers of fish pour in out of the boats and the boats rise higher and higher in the water until they are empty. The canneries rumble and rattle and squeak until the last fish is cleaned and cut and cooked and canned and then the whistles scream again and the dripping, smelly, tired Wops and Chinamen and Polaks, men and women, straggle out and droop their ways up the hill into the town and Cannery Row becomes itself again … The bums who retired in disgust under the black cypress tree come out to sit on the rusty pipes in the vacant lot. The girls from Dora’s emerge for a bit of sun if there is any. Doc strolls from the Western Biological Laboratory and crosses the street to Lee Chong’s grocery for two quarts of beer. Henri the painter noses like an Airedale through the junk in the grass-grown lot for some part or piece of wood or metal he needs for the boat he is building. Then the darkness edges in and the street light comes on in front of Dora’s – the lamp which makes perpetual moonlight in Cannery Row.

No wonder he’s considered a master.  Does this give you any new ideas for opening or writing your stories?

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