I recall the first time that I read this book. Learning of dread is what I brought away from that experience. I remember that reading page after page of what becomes of Lung and O-lan felt like a chore to me.
The one character I truly liked to read about throughout the entire book was the Earth. Buck revered the power and sanctity of the land and its intimate connection with humans.
The woman and the child were as brown as the
soil, and they sat there like figures made of earth. (42)
Autumnal rich tones compose this moment of the family. They are of the Earth in sustenance. They are of the earth in color. From the earth they rise and to the earth they will fall. The land is a dirt and mud hue that the family eventually consumes. But to Buck the Earth continues tranquilly,
And up from the quiescent, waiting land a faint mist rose,
silver as moonlight, and clung about the tree trunks. (150)
This haiku-like moment reflects that as human lives spin mercilessly the land rests. Fortune, famine and strife expand and shrivel human waistlines. Slavery, hunger, death; each touch every one of them and us. No one is spared these hardships except for the Earth.
Lung displaces his intimacy with the land, and his life becomes folly. No reconciliation is possible or even necessary upon the discovery of his foibles. Lung also had many charms in his life. Both Grandfather and O-lan dying were unrecoverable for Lung. The concubines made me hate Lung, full stop.
Another part that spoke to me was the repetition of Lung taking the role of the Old Lord in The Big House. Humans have lives we measure in decades. Roles have lives we measure in stories.*
The source of Lung and O-lan’s luck was also interesting. His nemesis, the uncle, seemed to play an unproportionally large role in his success. I found this paradox intriguing and very realistic.
O-lan was my favorite human character. Grit is a word that describes her fully. A small piece of the earth; used for grinding; to make smooth; unyielding, firmness; clenching one’s teeth. All of these words are shared by the word grit and O-lan.
Perhaps what I had felt the first time that I had read this book was correct. This is a hard book to read. It is a chore. Reading this novel is winnowing wheat or pulling a plough. It is killing your own baby for your family.
Buck leaves this chore-like impression on the reader. She is mimicking the slow wearing away of life caught in existence.
I cried when O-lan died. But all is okay. It was like we are standing with Buck knee-deep in the wet, black tilled soil. Her arms are outstretched, and the rain falls gently on her closed eyelids. “Here”, she whispers, “In this place, we work.”
Sources:
Buck, Pearl S. “The Good Earth.” New York: Pocket Books, 2005.
*Stories have lives we measure in unemployed Literary Criticism graduate students.