East of Eden

by John Steinbeck

“I thought I had inherited both the scars of the fire and the impurities which made the fire necessary—all inherited, I thought. All inherited. Do you feel that way?” “I think so,” said Cal. “I don’t know,” Abra said. Lee shook his head. “That isn’t good enough. That isn’t good enough thinking. Maybe—” And he was silent. Cal felt the heat of the liquor in his stomach. “Maybe what, Lee?” “Maybe you’ll come to know that every man in every generation is refired. Does a craftsman, even in his old age, lose his hunger to make a perfect cup—thin, strong, translucent?” He held his cup to the light. “All impurities burned out and ready for a glorious flux, and for that—more fire. And then either the slag heap or, perhaps what no one in the world ever quite gives up, perfection.” He drained his cup and he said loudly, “Cal, listen to me. Can you think that whatever made us—would stop trying?”