Of Mice and Men

A popular classic that’s long languished on my to-read list, I finally got around to reading Steinbeck’s novella Of Mice and Men, and find myself compelled to read his other works, particularly The Grapes of Wrath, in the near future. Beautiful in its simplicity, Of Mice and Men is one of several books recently that has amply show that a brisk, simple tale can reach inside and grip by the heart and – like Lennie – never let go. George and Lennie are friends so close that you cannot help but like them both, simply because their kindness to one another shows them to be genuinely good people. All they have in the world is one another and their shared dream – to one day have their own farm. Lennie is mentally handicapped, so simple and childlike that despite his great size and strength, I felt a great protective urge over him – and that George has it too is what makes the narrative work so well. Lennie cannot understand the fragility of life, which often leads him into trouble, which George has to get him out of. Even though he is, of course, sharper and more self-aware, George’s passions and longings are just as simple as Lennie’s, and his fraternal bond equally strong.

The driving force for the action is loneliness. The cast is full of outsiders: Crooks, the only black worker, who pretends to be hostile but cannot conceal his pleasure when someone pays him a visit; old Candy, who has no-one until George and Lennie arrive, and it is his desire to be a part of their strong friendship that turns their dream into a real possibility; and Curly’s wife, too – who for all her faults is ultimately just a lonely girl who doesn’t love her husband. As I read the novel, I realised that it seemed very much as though I was reading a play – other than one exquisite sentence in the opening paragraphs about a heron, the prose is perfunctory, precise, unspectacular, and the book as a whole is made up almost entirely of dialogue. Reading the introduction after enjoying the story (always the time to read the introduction, contrarily), my expectations were confirmed: Steinbeck had of course consciously decided to write in this style, merging the play and the novel because he was troubled that there was no future in the conventional novel. There is something to be said for the style; I was put in mind of a master drummer who listens to the music and realises that in the context, what is needed is not a showy beat, but the elegance of simplicity. That said, I would’ve liked to have seen more of the internal states of the characters, known more of their feelings, more of their emotional responses. But I fear that would have been to the detriment of the story. The objective nature of the prose allows the grandly-drawn, almost sentimental characters to seem more realistic. They’re big, flat characters, almost archetypes, but that doesn’t mean one cannot make a connection with them: I certainly cared about Lennie and George, and broad characterisation does not necessarily mean unrealistic characterisation. There are plenty of simple people in the world, and I care about them, too.

The only part I can really fault is a hallucinogenic segment involving talking rabbits. The sudden invasion of Lennie’s thoughts breaks that objective mood, and the visions simply don’t have the creepy, shocking quality of, say, Simon conversing with The Lord of the Flies. That minor low point aside, Of Mice and Men is full of hauntingly beautiful moments, with a simple but touching story, told in a voice that perhaps would seem unsatisfying if not for the perfect precision and brevity of the tale, and its excellent dialogue. Worthy of the classic status it holds.