"Of all the children Una had the least humor. She met and married an intense dark man—a man whose fingers were stained with chemicals mostly silver nitrate. He was one of those men who live in poverty so their lines of questioning may continue. His question was about photography. He believed that the exterior world could he transferred to paper-not in the ghost shadings of black and white but in the colors the human eye perceives.
His name was Anderson and he had little gift for communication. Like most technicians, he had a terror and a contempt for speculation. The inductive leap was not for him. He dug a step and pulled himself up one single step, the way a man climbs the last shoulder of a mountain. He had great contempt, born of fear, for the Hamiltons, for they all half believed they had wings—and they got some bad falls that way.
Anderson never fell, never slipped back, never flew. His steps moved slowly, slowly upward, and in the end, it is said, he found what he wanted—color film.
…he took her away to the north, and it was black and lost where he went—somewhere on the borders of Oregon. He must he lived a very primitive life with his bottles and papers.
Una wrote bleak letters without joy but also without self-pity. She was well and she hoped her family was well. Her husband was near to his discovery.
And then she died and her body was shipped home."
His name was Anderson and he had little gift for communication. Like most technicians, he had a terror and a contempt for speculation. The inductive leap was not for him. He dug a step and pulled himself up one single step, the way a man climbs the last shoulder of a mountain. He had great contempt, born of fear, for the Hamiltons, for they all half believed they had wings—and they got some bad falls that way.
Anderson never fell, never slipped back, never flew. His steps moved slowly, slowly upward, and in the end, it is said, he found what he wanted—color film.
…he took her away to the north, and it was black and lost where he went—somewhere on the borders of Oregon. He must he lived a very primitive life with his bottles and papers.
Una wrote bleak letters without joy but also without self-pity. She was well and she hoped her family was well. Her husband was near to his discovery.
And then she died and her body was shipped home."
Chapter 23, East of Eden by John Steinbeck
From the intro…an ambitious saga of the Salinas Valley and his own family’s history.
From the intro…an ambitious saga of the Salinas Valley and his own family’s history.
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