East of Eden by John Steinbeck: A Must-Read for Educators

Every literature teacher — myself included — constantly asks: which texts should we offer our students so they can learn, grow, and challenge themselves? It’s a vital question, and one we must never stop asking. Yet, we must also remember that teachers, like our students, need great literature for personal nourishment.

Sometimes, in the search for texts that are meaningful, accessible, and appropriately challenging, I forget to read for myself. Without great literature, our ability to notice life’s subtleties diminishes; our sensitivity to engage deeply with ourselves — and therefore with our students — wanes. Our creativity and imagination stagnate. We miss the “hundred lives” that, as Umberto Eco says, great books offer to those who approach them. If we teachers do not cultivate our own reading, it’s not just ourselves who lose out — our students do too.

This article launches a new section of the blog, dedicated entirely to reading for oneself. Today, we start with a profound and extraordinary work: East of Eden by John Steinbeck.

East of Eden follows two family lines destined to slowly converge.

On one side is Samuel Hamilton, an Irish immigrant who is poor but resourceful, capable of finding joy even amidst the harshness of life. On the other side is Cyrus Trask, an authoritarian father who builds his reputation on a lie and transmits to his sons, Charles and Adam, a rivalry fueled by jealousy, longing for love, and the desire for recognition.

Adam, moving to California’s Salinas Valley, becomes the story’s central figure when he marries Cathy Ames, an enigmatic and destructive presence who, after giving him two children, abandons him, plunging him into a long inner paralysis.

Their twins, Cal and Aron, grow up in a home marked by their mother’s absence and guided by Lee, a Chinese-American servant whose quiet wisdom shapes their moral understanding. The twins inherit a shadowed legacy that echoes, in new forms, the ancient conflict between brothers.

The novel revolves around the question that haunts Cal: is a person determined by the evil they inherit, or can they choose who they will become? It is within this tension between destiny and choice that the decisive space for human freedom emerges.

In East of Eden, the Salinas Valley itself takes on symbolic meaning. It is not just a setting; it mirrors the human condition. Like the biblical Eden, the valley is an original space, full of promise. But unlike the paradise of beginnings, it is already shaped by history, labor, mistakes, and guilt.

The valley is a lost Eden: not a place of untouched innocence, but a space where good and evil coexist, and where each generation must confront the possibility of falling. Yet loss does not equal despair. Because it is no longer innocent, the valley becomes the place of responsibility: here, humans are not shielded from evil but are called to make choices.

Steinbeck’s Eden is neither behind us as an unreachable paradise, nor ahead as a guaranteed promise. It exists only insofar as humans, within a story marked by limits, decide to turn toward good.

At the heart of the novel is Cathy Ames, one of modern literature’s most unsettling characters. Her presence is almost symbolic. Every time she appears, the story confronts the radical question of the origin of evil.

At first, Steinbeck presents her in harsh terms, suggesting some people are “without conscience.” Yet the narrator immediately warns against simplification:

“It’s easy to say, ‘She was bad,’ but that doesn’t mean much if we don’t know why.”

The novel refuses superficial condemnation. Cathy’s evil is not foreign to humanity: it hints that such potential exists, at least hidden, in all of us:

“Perhaps there is in everyone a secret pool where the worst things grow… and aren’t we its kin?”

Adam shows another dynamic: not overt evil, but the illusion of good. He does not truly love Cathy; he loves the shining image he has created of her. When he says the world suddenly became beautiful, he is not describing reality, but his own projection. Steinbeck shows that evil can act through idealization — through imagined good that refuses to see the truth.

Cathy remains an unresolved mystery. She is not simply “evil,” but the point where the novel forces us to confront the depth of human freedom: the real possibility of rejecting good, and the responsibility of those who choose not to see.

With the new generation, moral questions become lived experience. In Adam’s sons, the central question crystallizes: is a person determined by inherited evil, or can they choose who they will become?

Aron embodies idealized purity. His lens on the world must remain clear, orderly, and innocent. But this is fragile innocence, built on the exclusion of evil. When he learns the truth about his mother, he cannot bear it: his idealized purity shatters because it was rooted in illusion, not freedom.

Cal, in contrast, lives in contradiction. He feels Cathy’s shadow inside him and is terrified, as if evil were already written in his blood:

“I hate her because I know what she is… I know because she is inside me.”

Here, Lee intervenes with words of profound moral and educational force:

“Whatever you do, it will be you doing it… not your mother.”

Heritage exists, wounds leave marks, history weighs on us — yet none of this can replace personal choice. The decisive battle is not against the evil of the past, but for the freedom of the present.

At the heart of East of Eden lies a single Hebrew word that crystallizes the novel’s vision of human dignity: timshel, “thou mayest.” I explore the meaning of timshel in greater depth in a dedicated article, but here it is enough to recognize its profound educational resonance.

The word appears in a key scene in which Lee reflects on the biblical story of Cain and Abel. Rather than interpreting God’s words as a command or a prediction, Lee insists they express possibility: human beings may choose. Not must. Not will. May.

The narrative converges in the final scene. After Aron’s death and the family’s collapse, Cal is crushed by guilt. The risk is not just suffering, but despair: believing that committed evil defines who one is forever.

Lee embodies the moral heart of the novel. His plea to Adam concerns not the past, but Cal’s future:

“Do not crush him… give him your blessing… set him free! It is the only thing that lifts man above the beasts.”

Freeing someone from guilt does not deny evil, but restores the possibility of choice. It is a profoundly educational act: recognizing responsibility without destroying hope.

On his deathbed, Adam utters a single word: timshel, “thou mayest.” Not a sentence, but an opening. Not a definition, but a promise.

Here lies Steinbeck’s vision of humanity — and of education: humans are not determined by inherited good or evil. Their dignity arises from the freedom to choose. True greatness begins when someone — a parent, a teacher, a friend — restores the freedom to choose good.

East of Eden illuminates some of the deepest questions of education. It invites us to reflect on:

• How much a student’s family history matters
• How inherited wrongs can be confronted and overcome
• The transformative power of a gaze that blesses rather than condemns

The novel does not offer easy answers. It reminds us that human greatness comes when someone restores the freedom to choose, and that every choice, however difficult, is an act of liberty.

For this reason, Steinbeck’s masterpiece is a necessary book for educators. It teaches, with disarming simplicity, the most demanding truth: humans are free — and someone must tell them.

Have you read East of Eden by John Steinbeck? How do you use literature to explore freedom and moral choice in your classroom? Share your thoughts in the comments below and don’t forget to share this article with fellow educators who value the transformative power of great books.

Warmly,

Chiara

John Steinbeck’s vision in East of Eden is too rich to exhaust in a single reflection. Each character, each moral tension, opens a new path for understanding education, freedom, and responsibility.

In related articles, I explore:

• The meaning of timshel in East of Eden, and how Steinbeck’s interpretation of “thou mayest” reshapes our understanding of human agency. You can find it here.
• Cathy Ames and the mystery of evil, examining one of modern literature’s most unsettling characters. [COMING SOON!]
• Inherited guilt and moral freedom in Cal Trask, reflecting on whether we are bound by our past. [COMING SOON!]
• Biblical symbolism and generational conflict in the novel, uncovering the deeper narrative architecture of the story. [COMING SOON!]

Together, these reflections form a small reading journey — not only into the novel itself, but into the deeper questions it raises about teaching and formation.