In 1962, towards the end of his life and the year he won the Nobel Prize, John Steinbeck (1902 – 1968) drove around the United States with his French poodle, Charley, and wrote of the experience in Travels with Charley.1
Steinbeck found his beloved pet the most suitable companion.
He can’t read, can’t drive a car, and has no grasp of mathematics. But in his own field of endeavor, which he was now practicing, the slow, imperial smelling over and anointing of an area, he has no peer. Of course his horizons are limited, but how wide are mine?
A man who once let the rhythms of America run through his fingers like a handful of water admitted he was removed, even homesick. He also felt restlessness. An urgency saddled Steinbeck his entire life, a tension to move yet a need—as a writer—to remain still.2
Like George Orwell, who lived among the poor anonymously in Paris and London, Steinbeck knew “I must travel alone” and “incognito.”
In this anonymity, Steinbeck enjoyed the unbounded natural beauty of America. Among the California redwoods, he writes:
I stayed two days close to the bodies of giants, and there were no trippers, no chattering troupes with cameras. There is a cathedral hush here. Perhaps the thick soft bark absorbs sound and creates the silence.
The drive spiralled around small towns, mountains, and forests. The writing circles themes of companionship with pets, journeying, the majesty of nature, and, unexpectedly, a measure of alienating peace once they arrive in California, Steinbeck’s home state.
And yet, Steinbeck reckoned in Travels with Charley that the trip was fruitless. At the end of the journal, he wrote, “My own journey started long before I left, and was over before I returned.” He saw America, yes, but Steinbeck longed for something he couldn’t achieve: his own re-integration into America. It is as if he thought America owed him something.
Of all modern writers, the price and alienation of fame came dearest to Steinbeck. I’m reminded how often he wrote of wanting to be left alone.
Accompany Travels with Charley with Steinbeck’s Working Days, a much earlier but equally gritty and relentless journey of self.
The place of my origin had changed, and having gone away I had not changed with it. In my memory it stood as it once did and its outward appearance confused and angered me. […] When I went away I had died, and so became fixed and unchangeable. My return caused only confusion and uneasiness. Although they could not say it, my old friends wanted me gone so that I could take my proper place in the pattern of remembrance—and I wanted to go for the same reason.
Travel as a means of self-discovery is time-worn. Like Joseph Brodsky’s 3magnificent essay on Venice, or the essays of Laurie Lee, a man who left his small Cotswolds village at age nineteen and never stopped travelling. Or Robert Macfarlane’s The Old Ways, a study of the human compulsion to forge paths. Equally interesting is Pico Iyer’s The Art of Stillness, a study in not moving, what songwriter Leonard Cohen called the most difficult but most rewarding challenge of his life.