The Place - after Reading Steinbeck's "The Winter of Our Discontent"

The beginning is always different. Always better. Definitely untarnished. Certainly immaculate. The impressions about it are kept, and preserved, and treasured in spite of what they say about it. This place where they stay, and torment, and wring our hearts, and torture, thus, leaving the possibility for purifying one’s nature when calling back the reminiscences, but not letting back anymore, is our soul. The sacred corners of it. They treasure what cannot be brought back. The nature cannot be changed if one has the light. Even so weak and dying out. Even being corrupted by the environment – prevailing intentions and dominant moods in the society.
It has always been this: “In the natural course of nature, living organisms are continually being destroyed, and among the principal things that destroy them are the predatory appetite and the competitive instinct that are necessary for the very survival of eating and breeding creatures.”1 So, what is the use of being naïve and unspoiled, morally honest and right in the eyes of the society? Who needs it? Even teenagers, like Allen, having cheated his declaration of love to America from the works of the famous thinkers, have come to realization of the bitter truth: “Who cares? Everybody does it. They all do.”2 But it somehow hurts, does not it? The thing is not that a long time ago people were different. Since it is not true. In their entity people have always stayed the same. It depends only on the nature of particular and chosen ones. And it is only after them to choose whether to lower themselves and become that solid mass that is destroying and greedy like an animal, whether to preserve the light……