Consider this not a review, but rather a love letter. A love letter to John Steinbeck, to return the love he expresses over and over again to this big, sweaty heap we call humanity.

Dear John,
Thanks for loving us, despite having the ability to turn over all of the rocks and finding our lowest common denominators there, squirming in the mud. I love you, I hate you; your writing makes me cry hot, jealous tears.
Despite your struggles to love God, I want you to know. . . he certainly loved you. No man can write this way, without the love of God.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.
I love you.