I have owed you this letter for a very long time — but my fingers have avoided the pencil as though it were an old and poisoned tool.

Letter to his literary agent, found on his desk after his death in 1968

Share with your friends

More from John Steinbeck

A book is like a man—clever and dull, brave and cowardly, beautiful and ugly. For every flowering thought there will be a page like a wet and mangy mongrel, and for every looping flight a tap on the wing and a reminder that wax cannot hold the feathers firm too near the sun.

Letter to his editor and friend, Pascal "Pat" Covici, 1952

Texas is a state of mind. Texas is an obsession. Above all, Texas is a nation in every sense of the word. And there’s an opening convey of generalities. A Texan outside of Texas is a foreigner.

The profession of book writing makes horse racing seem like a solid, stable business.

Accepting Nobel Prize, 1962

Give a critic an inch, he’ll write a play.

It is a common experience that a problem difficult at night is resolved in the morning after the committee of sleep has worked on it.