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Steinbeck: He didn’t need to ask whether the wolfsbane was blooming. He knew. A man knew when the wolfbane bloomed. Or maybe it was garlic? He tried to remember, searching his memory for stories his mother had told him, whispering tales of the old country from her cracked lips
Steinbeck: A man could become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms. Or was it a vampire? A man could become something, he knew, that was for sure. An owl hooted in the night. The change would come soon. The change would come.
Steinbeck: The change would come soon, just as the orchards of Salinas would give way to the growing megapolis of the city, just as the dried riverbeds that once fed these fertile lands would give way to desert and the workers would move on. They had to move on.
Steinbeck: A man can’t stay a man forever, he thought to himself, the landlords and the bosses take and take but a man’s only got so much to give. There’s more dignity in being a wolf, he thought, there’s more dignity in it.
Steinbeck: The man grimaced as if in pain, for, indeed, it was pain that the man felt. It moved through his body, crawling along his tendons like a caravan of displaced laborers leaving the dusty wastes of Oklahoma in hopes of a new life in the sunny orange groves of California
Steinbeck: Hair began to grow from the bare skin of his back, then hair began to grow on his stomach as well – then hair grew upon his legs. Then he grew hair on his face. Then he grew hair on his arms. King: you know you don’t need to be THAT granular King: I think we get it
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