The Grapes of Wrath

by John Steinbeck

Our people are good people; our people are kind people. Pray God some day kind people won’t all be poor. Pray God some day a kid can eat. And the associations of owners knew that some day the praying would stop. And there’s the end.

“Wanta die so bad. Wanta die awful. Die a little bit. Got to. Like sleepin’. Die a little bit. So tar’d. Tar’d. Maybe—don’ wake up no more.” His voice crooned off. “Gonna wear a crown—a golden crown.”

Did you ever see a deputy that didn’ have a fat ass?

us people will go on livin’ when all them people is gone.

And the latter was true, for how can a man without property know the ache of ownership?

And pretty soon now we’ll have serfs again.

A nd always, if he had a little money, a man could get drunk.

Death was a friend, and sleep was death’s brother.

BAR

And the stars down so close, and sadness and pleasure so close together, really the same thing.

God, they got a cop for ever’ ten people. Got one water faucet for ’bout two hundred people.”

The people come with nets to fish for potatoes in the river, and the guards hold them back; they come in rattling cars to get the dumped oranges, but the kerosene is sprayed. And they stand still and watch the potatoes float by, listen to the screaming pigs being killed in a ditch and covered with quicklime, watch the mountains of oranges slop down to a putrefying ooze;

In the souls of the people the grapes of wrath are filling and growing heavy, growing heavy for the vintage.

“When we get money for a spare we’ll get us some coffee an’ side-meat instead,” Tom said.

and the break would never come as long as fear could turn to wrath.

“Never breathed,” said Mrs. Wainwright softly. “Never was alive.”