Love or Something Like It: Burning Bright

One goal I had last summer that didn't pan out so well was to read more. This summer, I resolved not to let that opportunity pass again. Also, I'm really starved for book reports, I haven't written one in years (!!!).

As I am quite a fan of Steinbeck (East of Eden is my favourite novel), the first used bookstore I went into (which was in Berkeley) I picked up three of his novels. Burning Bright, Tortilla Flats, and Of Mice and Men somehow stood out to me among the rest of his offerings. Perhaps because of their length, or that they were in better condition than some of the others, but either way Steinbeck is appropriate given my current residence in California, albeit not in Salinas Valley.

First Up: Burning Bright was the only one before of which I had not heard (hm I guess forcing my prepositions not to be at the end of the sentence didn't work out so well there) so I decided to start with that one. It also had an intriguing, albeit dated, premise: a man is sterile, and his wife (arguably) loves him so much that she is willing to see another man in order to get pregnant so that he need not find out about his inability to sire. Steinbeck argues that the familial line is tantamount to immortality, or rather he argues that that is how it is perceived. Ultimately, he turns this notion on its head by the ...well the entire story is so short it's almost too difficult to break it into the usual pieces, so somewhere around the denouement or falling action (thank God this blog isn't being graded), when the novel closes on the novels tragic hero professing his love for this child who is biologically not his own.

Spoiler alert (really, who reads a Steinbeck novel for the twists? It's all about the analysis and commentary on the human condition-also, how can one possibly write a thorough analysis with spoilers?). Steinbeck managed to pleasantly surprise me this time around for the better. He typically adopts a commandeering and chauvinistic perspective in his writing, a wiser-than-thou and almost overtly didactic voice. In contrast to East of Eden, which faltered in its conclusion despite a strong lead-in (and I could write an entire post about my sympathy for Cathy and opposition to Steinbeck's portrayal of her character), Steinbeck here twists his characters for the better. Although the story ultimately hinges on the man and his needs, the female lead in this story exhibits greater emotional strength and a broader mind than he does, and is the strongest character in the novel.

The novel/play (Steinbeck attempts a new form, a pseudo-play that reads much more easily than reading a play, but also is less narrative and more explicit in its arguments than a novel) concludes on the theme of the meaning of love and the relationship between siring children and one's mortality. Although the means by which this happens in the novel need not even be considered in modern times, the concept is still relevant for all sorts of modern situations where a couple-or an individual-cannot have a child. This has been discussed far enough, so I'm going to skip that part here, but I do want to say that there is something both human and dehumanizing about the notion of reviewing a child before adoption (it makes sense logically/rationally, but at the same time I have a knee-jerk reaction to a non-random process. Is it better that the parent(s) pick a child that will best fit with him/her, or is in most need of adoption? this again is for a separate discussion).

What I found more intriguing about the novel was the topic of the limits of love, and what an individual will do in the name of it. The characters are one-dimensional in the typical Steinbeck fashion (of his novels I've read at least)-the story is about their world, not about them. They are very specifically vehicles for Steinbeck's central argument. As a result, we can forego any debate over the question of whether Maureen, the novels key protagonist (for me, her husband Joe Saul was secondary in nature) actually longed for an affair (something I found myself asking from the beginning, but this question was clearly answered in the negative by the end of the novel, trust me). So the question then, is whether her lie of love was the best decision to make, and whether we as the readers would ourselves have taken such measures for someone we love. At what point can an action be deemed blind love? Maureen ultimately is willing to do anything for Joe-give life, and take it away (she nearly murders the true father of the child in order to maintain her secret). But she does this all without his knowing, and thus his love for her, his love for himself, and his love for the child all become based on lies. He no longer loves her for all she is, he loves her for who he believes her to be, whom he believes himself to be. And that love is thus a lie, and hence eliminates the original justification for such as act (or at least, what would justify such an act in my opinion). It's a Catch-22 of sorts, that one should be willing to sacrifice one's integrity for true love, but that true love shouldn't require one to sacrifice one's integrity. And I don't believe that one can be in love with someone who is in love with that individual for what he is not. That is blind love, that is plain attachment and desperation. Different than a parent protecting a child, different than a friend protecting another friend. An old friend of mine once told me that the man is supposed to the be the rock in the relationship for the woman, and that remark [sic]. That is not a relationship, that is parenting. No one partner should have to provide such unbalanced support in a relationship. Hypocritically, I could see myself doing something as crazy for someone I love, but I would hope that we would respect one another enough to be able to tell one another the truth.