The Winter of Our Discontent by John Steinbeck

About the only fiction I can really stand to read are some of the older, dare-I-say "classic" literary figures of the not-too-distant past, such as Steinbeck, Hemingway, Kerouac and Salinger. I read fiction because so many of my friends and colleagues insinuate that fiction allows my mind to travel and imagine lives outside of my own. I have to admit that the experiences leave me struggling to enjoy the book at all.

After doing a bit of research on literary critics opinions of The Winter of Our Discontent, my own conclusion is that the book is very similar to other Steinbeck novels in many aspects.

1. There really is no introduction to the book. Like other Steinbeck novels I have read, the book jumps into an existing, moving plot the reader has to catch up to. To me, this allows the story to begin, and the setting to unfold in its own time, as its necessary. Otherwise, I would either forget it or lose interest in the book.
   
2. I love the words Steinbeck chooses. It's fun to read the books that make you look up unfamiliar words in a dictionary. A dictionary isn't necessary to read the book, as the flow of the words and direction of the paragraph give you a good idea as to the idea the author is conveying, but I will happily snatch up any opportunity to expand my vocabulary.
   
3. Steinbeck is also a master at describing landscapes and individuals. This is one reason I really enjoy him. I felt like I was in New Baytown, and could paint wonderful pictures of the characters and environments Steinbeck created.
   

All of these led to an enjoyable reading experience.

My problem with fiction, however, is the ubiquitous "hidden meaning" behind the printed word. I had to go back and re-read several sections several times, and the final chapter of the book required probably an hour of study, reflection, and consideration of how the book actually ended. When we had required reading to do in collegiate English classes, I always felt left out and reluctant to contribute to the discussion of these kinds of works, simply because I knew I only could interpret a literal translation of the piece of work.

I didn't arrive in the library science field through traditional tunnels of English or Liberal Arts disciplines; I come from the technical, exacting field of Computer Science. Finishing a book without a clear end to the book kind of leaves me with uncertainty as to what ends up happening to the Ethan Hawley and whether or not I really want to take the time to read another work of fiction again.