One morning recently, I grew interested while listening to Mike & Mike in the Morning,
an early morning sports talk show favored by my husband. On the show, one of the Mikes
interviewed a prominent baseball pitcher, an avid reader and fan of fine literature, who
spends off-season reading fine books. He had just finished "Of Mice and Men," and
recommended the work. His recommendation was seconded by the same Mike, who
described being so affected by his reading of the book years ago that he cried at the end,
and was still moved by thoughts of it that day. I was embarrassed to realize that I, an
English literature major in college, had never read a book that these sports guys were
discussing so sensitively on T.V, and determined to even that score. The book had been
checked out of the library, so I ordered it from Amazon.
I'd read several of Steinbeck's works previously, so I was familiar a bit with the soft touch, and the
caring-ness in his storytelling, so I enjoyed the book. I thought I was prepared for the
ending, but, in fact, the resolution chosen by the author was not one that my imagination
had suggested in advance. It more than moved me; it blew me away.