By Upton Sinclar
Sinclair's 1927 novel did for California's oil what "The Jungle" did for Chicago's meat-packing factories. In "Oil!" Upton Sinclair shaped a singular out of the oil scandals of the Harding management, supplying within the method a close photo of the advance of the oil in Southern California. Bribery of public officers, classification battle, and foreign competition over oil construction are the context for Sinclair's tale of a genial self sustaining oil developer and his son, whose sympathy with the oilfield staff and socialist organizers fuels a working debate together with his father. Senators, small traders, oil magnates, a Hollywood movie megastar, and a crusading evangelist humans the pages of this full of life novel.
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So there came on a platter two slices of meat, and mashed potatoes scooped out in a round ball, with a hole in the top filled with gluey brown gravy; also a spoonful of chopped up beets, and a leaf of lettuce with apple sauce in it. The waitress had given him an extra helping, because she liked this jolly brown kid, with his rosy cheeks and hair tumbled by the wind, and sensitive lips, like a girl’s, and eager brown eyes that roamed over the place and took in everything, the signs on the wall, the bottles of catsup and slices of pie, the fat jolly waitress, and the tired thin one who was waiting on him.
It was not that Dad was anxious to save the money; nor was it that he had grease to sell and not steel; it was the general principle of doing things right, of paying respect to a beautiful piece of machinery. Dad had got out, to stretch his legs. He was a big figure of a man, filling every inch of the opulent overcoat. His cheeks were rosy, and always fresh from the razor; but at second glance you noted little pockets of flesh about his eyes, and a network of wrinkles. His hair was grey; he had had many cares, and was getting old.
No, not yet; but he’ll come; he knows we were speeding. ” There you saw the debased nature of the “speed-cop”! He chose a spot where it was perfectly safe to go fast, and where he knew that everyone would be impatient, having been held in so long by the curves up in the mountains, and by the wet roads! That was how much they cared for fair play, those “speed-cops”! They crept along at thirty miles an hour; the lawful limit in those benighted times, back in 1912. It took all the thrill out of motoring, and it knocked the schedule to pot.