"And still the box is not full"

I devoured John Steinbeck's East of Eden the first time I read it. Swept up in its grandeur like the dry dust in the Salinas Valley wind that Steinbeck depicts, I must have missed the beautiful dedication page. It was evidently a note Steinbeck wrote and attached to the mahogany box he specifically carved to hold his epic manuscript. He sent these things to his old friend, Pascal Convici.

A favorite high school English teacher once told me that she never re-reads a book because "there are too many good ones still out there." But repeat readings appeal to me in their freedom: freedom to savor words and revel in their beauty, freedom to find those little gems one discovers only after the thrill of literary expedition wears off. These books that become like old friends.

Dear Pat,
You came upon me carving some kind of little figure out of wood and you said, "Why don't you make something for me?"
I asked you what you wanted, and you said, "A box."
"What for?"
"To put things in"
"What things?"
"Whatever you have," you said.
Well, here's your box. Nearly everything I have is in it, and it is not full. Pain and excitement are in it, and feeling good or bad and evil thoughts and good thoughts-- the pleasure of design and some despair and the indescribable joy of creation.
And on top of these are all the gratitude and love I have for you.
And still the box is not full.

John

(photo by Dani Padgett)