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- Джон Стейнбек
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- Гроздья гнева
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- Стр. 25/563
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Snubnosed
monsters
,
raising
the
dust
and
sticking
their
snouts
into
it
,
straight
down
the
country
,
across
the
country
,
through
fences
,
through
dooryards
,
in
and
out
of
gullies
in
straight
lines
.
They
did
not
run
on
the
ground
,
but
on
their
own
roadbeds
.
They
ignored
hills
and
gulches
,
water
courses
,
fences
,
houses
.
The
man
sitting
in
the
iron
seat
did
not
look
like
a
man
;
gloved
,
goggled
,
rubber
dust
mask
over
nose
and
mouth
,
he
was
a
part
of
the
monster
,
a
robot
in
the
seat
.
The
thunder
of
the
cylinders
sounded
through
the
country
,
became
one
with
the
air
and
the
earth
,
so
that
earth
and
air
muttered
in
sympathetic
vibration
.
The
driver
could
not
control
it
—
straight
across
country
it
went
,
cutting
through
a
dozen
farms
and
straight
back
.
A
twitch
at
the
controls
could
swerve
the
cat
’
,
but
the
driver
’
s
hands
could
not
twitch
because
the
monster
that
built
the
tractors
,
the
monster
that
sent
the
tractor
out
,
had
somehow
got
into
the
driver
’
s
hands
,
into
his
brain
and
muscle
,
had
goggled
him
and
muzzled
him
—
goggled
his
mind
,
muzzled
his
speech
,
goggled
his
perception
,
muzzled
his
protest
.
He
could
not
see
the
land
as
it
was
,
he
could
not
smell
the
land
as
it
smelled
;
his
feet
did
not
stamp
the
clods
or
feel
the
warmth
and
power
of
the
earth
.
He
sat
in
an
iron
seat
and
stepped
on
iron
pedals
.
He
could
not
cheer
or
beat
or
curse
or
encourage
the
extension
of
his
power
,
and
because
of
this
he
could
not
cheer
or
whip
or
curse
or
encourage
himself
.
He
did
not
know
or
own
or
trust
or
beseech
the
land
.
If
a
seed
dropped
did
not
germinate
,
it
was
nothing
.
If
the
young
thrusting
plant
withered
in
drought
or
drowned
in
a
flood
of
rain
,
it
was
no
more
to
the
driver
than
to
the
tractor
.
He
loved
the
land
no
more
than
the
bank
loved
the
land
.
He
could
admire
the
tractor
—
its
machined
surfaces
,
its
surge
of
power
,
the
roar
of
its
detonating
cylinders
;
but
it
was
not
his
tractor
.
Behind
the
tractor
rolled
the
shining
disks
,
cutting
the
earth
with
bladesnot
plowing
but
surgery
,
pushing
the
cut
earth
to
the
right
where
the
second
row
of
disks
cut
it
and
pushed
it
to
the
left
;
slicing
blades
shining
,
polished
by
the
cut
earth
.
And
pulled
behind
the
disks
,
the
harrows
combing
with
iron
teeth
so
that
the
little
clods
broke
up
and
the
earth
lay
smooth
.
Behind
the
harrows
,
the
long
seeders
—
twelve
curved
iron
penes
erected
in
the
foundry
,
orgasms
set
by
gears
,
raping
methodically
,
raping
without
passion
.
The
driver
sat
in
his
iron
seat
and
he
was
proud
of
the
straight
lines
he
did
not
will
,
proud
of
the
tractor
he
did
not
own
or
love
,
proud
of
the
power
he
could
not
control
.
And
when
that
crop
grew
,
and
was
harvested
,
no
man
had
crumbled
a
hot
clod
in
his
fingers
and
let
the
earth
sift
past
his
fingertips
.
No
man
had
touched
the
seed
,
or
lusted
for
the
growth
.
Men
ate
what
they
had
not
raised
,
had
no
connection
with
the
bread
.
The
land
bore
under
iron
,
and
under
iron
gradually
died
;
for
it
was
not
loved
or
hated
,
it
had
no
prayers
or
curses
.
At
noon
the
tractor
driver
stopped
sometimes
near
a
tenant
house
and
opened
his
lunch
:
sandwiches
wrapped
in
waxed
paper
,
white
bread
,
pickle
,
cheese
,
Spam
,
a
piece
of
pie
branded
like
an
engine
part
.
He
ate
without
relish
.
And
tenants
not
yet
moved
away
came
out
to
see
him
,
looked
curiously
while
the
goggles
were
taken
off
,
and
the
rubber
dust
mask
,
leaving
white
circles
around
the
eyes
and
a
large
white
circle
around
nose
and
mouth
.
The
exhaust
of
the
tractor
puttered
on
,
for
fuel
is
so
cheap
it
is
more
efficient
to
leave
the
engine
running
than
to
heat
the
Diesel
nose
for
a
new
start
.
Curious
children
crowded
close
,
ragged
children
who
ate
their
fried
dough
as
they
watched
.
They
watched
hungrily
the
unwrapping
of
the
sandwiches
,
and
their
hunger
-
sharpened
noses
smelled
the
pickle
,
cheese
,
and
Spam
.
They
didn
’
t
speak
to
the
driver
.
They
watched
his
hand
as
it
carried
food
to
his
mouth
.
They
did
not
watch
him
chewing
;
their
eyes
followed
the
hand
that
held
the
sandwich
.
After
a
while
the
tenant
who
could
not
leave
the
place
came
out
and
squatted
in
the
shade
beside
the
tractor
.
"
Why
,
you
’
re
Joe
Davis
’
s
boy
!
"
"
Sure
,
"
the
driver
said
.
"
Well
,
what
you
doing
this
kind
of
work
for
—
against
your
own
people
?
"
"
Three
dollars
a
day
.
I
got
damn
sick
of
creeping
for
my
dinner
—
and
not
getting
it
.
I
got
a
wife
and
kids
.
We
got
to
eat
.
Three
dollars
a
day
,
and
it
comes
every
day
.
"
"
That
’
s
right
,
"
the
tenant
said
.
"
But
for
your
three
dollars
a
day
fifteen
or
twenty
families
can
’
t
eat
at
all
.
