east of eden

I remember my childhood names for grasses and secret flowers. I remember where a toad may live and what time the birds awaken in the summer–and what trees and seasons smelled like–how people looked and smelled even. The memory of odors is very rich.

I just finished John Steinbeck's East of Eden. A novel about two families in and around the Salinas Valley who deal with themes of love and search for identity. As it shadows the story of Genesis' Cain and Abel, the characters often face decisions inside who they are as individuals. Family heritage also plays a large role here, as characters seem to continuously seek love and fulfillment from those around them. Set at the turn of the century among an excitement for a "new America", the first of Henry Ford and war, Steinbeck's beautifully descriptive prose captivates. 

The whole valley floor, and the foothills too, would be carpeted with lupins and poppies. Once a woman told me that colored flowers would seem more bright if you added a few white flowers to give the colors definition. Every petal of blue lupin is edged with white, so that a field of lupins is more blue than you can imagine. And mixed with these were splashes of California poppies. These too are of a burning color–not orange, not gold, but if pure gold were liquid and could raise a cream, that golden cream might be like the color of the poppies.