“Travels with Charley” by John Steinbeck

I am yet to read a John Steinbeck book that I didn’t enjoy, and ‘Travels with Charley’ definitely hasn’t broken this circle. The legendary author’s novels are very different, and each of those that I’ve read impacted me differently. What they have in common is that they all have left a lasting impression, an aftertaste, a distinctive mark that only real literature has the power of making.

Just as much as I love reading books themselves, I enjoy reading about them. I was never bored in Literature lessons when our teacher told us about authors’ lives and the backstories of how their masterpieces came to be. So, since there is plenty of material about Steinbeck, I read reviews and opinions about ‘Travels with Charley.’ Those critical ones seem to concentrate on the exposé that the travelogue was more fiction than non-fiction. Journalists and researchers set their minds on showing the world that John Steinbeck lied to us all, and that he made up the account of American life, which he presented in this book. His itinerary was impossible to recreate; the encounters with the people that he described never happened, and he too often stayed in luxury hotels rather than in his faithful Rocinante (a custom-made camper truck that Steinbeck ordered specifically for this trip).

Well, I am certain that these are all valid points. The writer was nearing sixty when he set out on the journey across the US, and he was already very sick. Probably not the same, but some journalists/reviewers express surprise that his wife had allowed him to undertake this challenging journey, considering his health issues. And they go on accusing him of not sleeping every night in his camper.

My subjective impression is that John Steinbeck didn’t try to hide that during his trip across the country he stayed in better hotels, with his wife joining him, and that he also stayed at his friends’ houses. Whether it was often or seldom, I cannot say. But I can say that it didn’t bother me in the least while reading. A clever man’s reflections are fascinating to read, irrespective of whether they are based on real events or are compounded of his extensive life experience.

For example, this description of the vet, to whom Steinbeck took his dog Charley when he got poorly during the journey. “I think he didn’t like himself, and when that is so the subject usually must find an area for dislike outside himself. Else he would have to admit his self-contempt.” It doesn’t matter if that man was the way Steinbeck describes him in the book or even if he had met him at all. His description of a person of a certain nature is poignant and spot on.

Or this quote about Charley himself: “For Charley is not a human; he is a dog, and he likes it that way. He feels that he is a first-rate dog and has no wish to be a second-rate human.” Excellent!

I enjoyed reading Steinbeck’s reflections on the changes in American life that he witnessed on his trip. They made me think about how life had changed in the next sixty years after he took that trip. I felt the writer’s sadness about some things disappearing into oblivion. I often feel the same, especially when I tell my son about how different life used to be when I was his age. While sharing my memories with him, I often feel amazed, thinking: ‘Did we really live like this?’ Some things seem quite unbelievable.

Steinbeck mentions that while he is sorry to see some things go, he isn’t against progress. “This sounds as though I bemoan an older time, which is the preoccupation of the old, and cultivate an opposition to change, which is the currency of the rich and stupid. It is not so.” I can relate to that. I am most definitely extremely appreciative of modern-day comforts. The sadness is about the parts that we inevitably lose but which were valuable and important and added colour to life.

I loved Steinbeck’s thoughts about travelling. I have always felt this urge to explore, this pull of the road. Probably it is because, in Steinbeck’s words: “…many a trip continues long after movement in time and space have ceased.” A trip doesn’t end when you cross the threshold of your home. It lives within you, fuels you, makes your life-after fuller.

My trip to the National Steinbeck Center in Salinas, California back in 2024 didn’t end after I boarded the plane and crossed the ocean to return home. It is still within me, a living and breathing memory, which I intend to repeat one day. I’ve read more of Steinbeck’s books since my visit to his museum, and I now want to explore it again, carrying more knowledge about his literary legacy.

“Eventlessness collapses time.” Phrases like this are what make anything that this writer has written worth reading. It sets into motion the thinking process, which, sadly, gets stilled by modern progress.