Even while I protest the assembly-line production of our food, our songs, our language, and eventually our… — John Steinbeck
Even while I protest the assembly-line production of our food, our songs, our language, and eventually our souls, I know that it was a rare home that baked good bread in the old days. Mother’s cooking was with rare exceptions poor, that good unpasteurized milk touched only by flies and bits of manure crawled with bacteria, the healthy old-time life was riddled with aches, sudden death from unknown causes, and that sweet local speech I mourn was the child of illiteracy and ignorance. It is the nature of a man as he grows older, a small bridge in time, to protest against change, particularly change for the better.
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More from this book
I am in love with Montana. For other states I have admiration, respect, recognition, even some affection, but with Montana it is love.
Sectional football games have the glory and the despair of war, and when a Texas team takes the field against a foreign state, it is an army with banners.
When we get these thruways across the whole country, as we will and must, it will be possible to drive from New York to California without seeing a single thing.
