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.
Man is the only kind of varmint sets his own trap, baits it, then steps in it.
She seemed to know, to accept, to welcome her position, the citadel of the family, the strong place that could not be taken. And since old Tom and the children could not know hurt or fear unless she acknowledged hurt or fear, she had practiced denying them in herself. And since, when a joyful thing happened, they looked to see whether joy was on her, it was her habit to build laughter out of inadequate materials....She seemed to know that if she swayed the family shook, and if she ever deeply wavered or despaired the family would fall.
it was her habit to build up laughter out of inadequate materials.
When Kino had finished, Juana came back to the fire and ate her breakfast. They had spoken once, but there is not need for speech if it is only a habit anyway. Kino sighed with satisfaction - and that was conversation.
But Doc had one mental habit he could not get over. When anyone asked a question, Doc thought he wanted to know the answer.
How can the poem and the stink and the grating noise - the quality of light, the tone, the habit and the dream - be set down alive?
In writing, habit seems to be a much stronger force than either willpower or inspiration.
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