A while ago I had read The Grapes of Wrath- also written by John Steinbeck- and loved it. With its timelessness of family closeness and hope, it's obvious to the every day reader why this classic is told and retold throughout time. The common denominator between Steinbeck's two novels that I noticed (besides the obvious; plot and time period) was the character's burning passion for hope. Hope was a huge factor back then and in such dire times, I found it incredibly astute of Steinbeck to include that in his stories.
After I had finished The Grapes of Wrath, my mom insisted that I try Of Mice and Men, a favorite of hers. Even a friend of mine (who isn't a reader whatsoever) told me that it was his favorite novel.
After learning that, I HAD to read it.
I picked up a copy at the local bookstore, sat down one afternoon in a comfy chair and read it.
I rarely sob until my eyes are red and puffy when it comes to books (that's a lie), but oh boy did I let it out at the end of Of Mice and Men.
I had no idea about this classic's iconic ending. Before reading it, I had no idea whatsoever what was going to happen, even though I'm sure I've heard quotes from it before. (i.e. "Tell me about the rabbits. George!")
Throughout the chapters I would ask my mom if it had a happy ending. If everything would be okay. And of course, she told me nothing. I had to finish this book unsure of what was going to happen. I didn't think that a classic such as Of Mice and Men could emotionally affect me to the point of swollen eyes and tear streaked cheeks. But it did, and under 120 pages nonetheless!
A part of me wishes it was longer. The story was so amazing, I wanted more. But another part of me thinks that any more pages would ruin the tragic beauty of it.