Гроздья гнева

           Themanwhoismorethanhischemistry,walkingontheearth,turninghisplowpointforastone,droppinghishandlestoslideoveranoutcropping,kneelingintheearthtoeathislunch;thatmanwhoismorethanhiselementsknowsthelandthatismorethanitsanalysis.Butthemachineman,drivingadeadtractoronlandhedoesnotknowandlove,understandsonlychemistry;andheiscontemptuousofthelandandofhimself.Whenthecorrugatedirondoorsareshut,hegoeshome,andhishomeisnottheland.

           THEDOORSoftheemptyhousesswungopen,anddriftedbackandforthinthewind.Bandsoflittleboyscameoutfromthetownstobreakthewindowsandtopickoverthedebris,lookingfortreasures.Andhere’saknifewithhalfthebladegone.That’sagoodthing.And—smellslikearatdiedhere.AndlookwhatWhiteywroteonthewall.Hewrotethatinthetoiletinschool,too,an’teachermade’imwashitoff.

           Whenthefolksfirstleft,andtheeveningofthefirstdaycame,thehuntingcatsslouchedinfromthefieldsandmewedontheporch.Andwhennoonecameout,thecatscreptthroughtheopendoorsandwalkedmewingthroughtheemptyrooms.Andthentheywentbacktothefieldsandwerewildcatsfromthenon,huntinggophersandfieldmice,andsleepinginditchesinthedaytime