But for serious, this second section was excellent. I've already forgotten the hideousness of chapter seven in the wake of chapters 14 and 15. O chapter 15! That I might bask in your radiance now and forevermore.
66 is the path of a people in flight, refugees from dust and shrinking land, from the thunder of tractors and shrinking ownership, from the desert's slow northward invasion, from the twisting winds that howl up out of Texas, from the floods that bring no richness to the land and steal what little richness is there. From all of these the people are in flight, and they come into 66 from the tributary side roads, from the wagon tracks and the rutted country roads. 66 is the mother road, the road of flight.
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword:
His truth is marching on.
So, kind of a "we're all fucked" mentality. That's what this book is named after.
I find myself in a rather nervous place, because they found that car part wayyyy too easily and cheaply. I mean, sure, a dog, rabbit and two grandparents have died, but I'm just waiting for something so terrible to happen that I can do nothing but stare at the book and then do this:
|Screw you, Steinbeck (jk, still love you)|