The Jungle is remembered today primarily as the force behind monumental food reform in the US. Published in 1905, its nauseating portrayal of conditions in Chicago's stockyards spurred an outcry so deafening that Roosevelt was compelled to take action. Both the Meat Inspection Act of 1906 as well as the groundwork for today's Food and Drug Administration were born out of this muckraking masterpiece.
This intense reaction, however, was merely a byproduct of Sinclair's true intention. Yes, he wanted to illustrate the horrors he experienced firsthand inside Chicago's meatpacking plants, but more so to add color to his characters' plight as working immigrants. His primary motive was a political one—to depict capitalism's ills in order to present socialism as the panacea. "I aimed at the public's heart," remarked Sinclair, "and by accident I hit it in the stomach."
This misreading isn't surprising. Whether a century ago or today, it's far easier to convince someone to care about the diseased meat in their food supply than injured factory workers, and the novel's stomach-churning revelations are hard to ignore. Moreover, Sinclair dedicates so much of the narrative to Jurgis' hardships—his abysmal working conditions, unjust prison time, heart-wrenching loss, etc.—that, by the end of the book, the sudden shift of tone from social realism to political propagation is jarring. The gospel of socialism appears as less of a solution to Jurgis' troubles and more of an afterthought.
This isn't to say The Jungle isn't enjoyable or worthwhile. Outrage and pity are morally indulgent, even addictive emotions—and the novel supplies a hardy dose at a sweeping pace. Plus, Sinclair's portrait of early 20th century Chicago is vivid and educational. I finished this read with both a distaste for sausage as well as a deeper understanding of our nation in the throes of industrialization.
The Jungle is remembered today primarily as the force behind monumental food reform in the US. Published in 1905, its nauseating portrayal of conditions in Chicago's stockyards spurred an outcry so deafening that Roosevelt was compelled to take action. Both the Meat Inspection Act of 1906 as well as the groundwork for today's Food and Drug Administration were born out of this muckraking masterpiece.
This intense reaction, however, was merely a byproduct of Sinclair's true intention. Yes, he wanted to illustrate the horrors he experienced firsthand inside Chicago's meatpacking plants, but more so to add color to his characters' plight as working immigrants. His primary motive was a political one—to depict capitalism's ills in order to present socialism as the panacea. "I aimed at the public's heart," remarked Sinclair, "and by accident I hit it in the stomach."
This misreading isn't surprising. Whether a century ago or today, it's far easier to convince someone to care about the diseased meat in their food supply than injured factory workers, and the novel's stomach-churning revelations are hard to ignore. Moreover, Sinclair dedicates so much of the narrative to Jurgis' hardships—his abysmal working conditions, unjust prison time, heart-wrenching loss, etc.—that, by the end of the book, the sudden shift of tone from social realism to political propagation is jarring. The gospel of socialism appears as less of a solution to Jurgis' troubles and more of an afterthought.
This isn't to say The Jungle isn't enjoyable or worthwhile. Outrage and pity are morally indulgent, even addictive emotions—and the novel supplies a hardy dose at a sweeping pace. Plus, Sinclair's portrait of early 20th century Chicago is vivid and educational. I finished this read with both a distaste for sausage as well as a deeper understanding of our nation in the throes of industrialization.
The Jungle is remembered today primarily as the force behind monumental food reform in the US. Published in 1905, its nauseating portrayal of conditions in Chicago's stockyards spurred an outcry so deafening that Roosevelt was compelled to take action. Both the Meat Inspection Act of 1906 as well as the groundwork for today's Food and Drug Administration were born out of this muckraking masterpiece.
This intense reaction, however, was merely a byproduct of Sinclair's true intention. Yes, he wanted to illustrate the horrors he experienced firsthand inside Chicago's meatpacking plants, but more so to add color to his characters' plight as working immigrants. His primary motive was a political one—to depict capitalism's ills in order to present socialism as the panacea. "I aimed at the public's heart," remarked Sinclair, "and by accident I hit it in the stomach."
This misreading isn't surprising. Whether a century ago or today, it's far easier to convince someone to care about the diseased meat in their food supply than injured factory workers, and the novel's stomach-churning revelations are hard to ignore. Moreover, Sinclair dedicates so much of the narrative to Jurgis' hardships—his abysmal working conditions, unjust prison time, heart-wrenching loss, etc.—that, by the end of the book, the sudden shift of tone from social realism to political propagation is jarring. The gospel of socialism appears as less of a solution to Jurgis' troubles and more of an afterthought.
This isn't to say The Jungle isn't enjoyable or worthwhile. Outrage and pity are morally indulgent, even addictive emotions—and the novel supplies a hardy dose at a sweeping pace. Plus, Sinclair's portrait of early 20th century Chicago is vivid and educational. I finished this read with both a distaste for sausage as well as a deeper understanding of our nation in the throes of industrialization.
The Jungle is remembered today primarily as the force behind monumental food reform in the US. Published in 1905, its nauseating portrayal of conditions in Chicago's stockyards spurred an outcry so deafening that Roosevelt was compelled to take action. Both the Meat Inspection Act of 1906 as well as the groundwork for today's Food and Drug Administration were born out of this muckraking masterpiece.
This intense reaction, however, was merely a byproduct of Sinclair's true intention. Yes, he wanted to illustrate the horrors he experienced firsthand inside Chicago's meatpacking plants, but more so to add color to his characters' plight as working immigrants. His primary motive was a political one—to depict capitalism's ills in order to present socialism as the panacea. "I aimed at the public's heart," remarked Sinclair, "and by accident I hit it in the stomach."
This misreading isn't surprising. Whether a century ago or today, it's far easier to convince someone to care about the diseased meat in their food supply than injured factory workers, and the novel's stomach-churning revelations are hard to ignore. Moreover, Sinclair dedicates so much of the narrative to Jurgis' hardships—his abysmal working conditions, unjust prison time, heart-wrenching loss, etc.—that, by the end of the book, the sudden shift of tone from social realism to political propagation is jarring. The gospel of socialism appears as less of a solution to Jurgis' troubles and more of an afterthought.
This isn't to say The Jungle isn't enjoyable or worthwhile. Outrage and pity are morally indulgent, even addictive emotions—and the novel supplies a hardy dose at a sweeping pace. Plus, Sinclair's portrait of early 20th century Chicago is vivid and educational. I finished this read with both a distaste for sausage as well as a deeper understanding of our nation in the throes of industrialization.
The Jungle is remembered today primarily as the force behind monumental food reform in the US. Published in 1905, its nauseating portrayal of conditions in Chicago's stockyards spurred an outcry so deafening that Roosevelt was compelled to take action. Both the Meat Inspection Act of 1906 as well as the groundwork for today's Food and Drug Administration were born out of this muckraking masterpiece.
This intense reaction, however, was merely a byproduct of Sinclair's true intention. Yes, he wanted to illustrate the horrors he experienced firsthand inside Chicago's meatpacking plants, but more so to add color to his characters' plight as working immigrants. His primary motive was a political one—to depict capitalism's ills in order to present socialism as the panacea. "I aimed at the public's heart," remarked Sinclair, "and by accident I hit it in the stomach."
This misreading isn't surprising. Whether a century ago or today, it's far easier to convince someone to care about the diseased meat in their food supply than injured factory workers, and the novel's stomach-churning revelations are hard to ignore. Moreover, Sinclair dedicates so much of the narrative to Jurgis' hardships—his abysmal working conditions, unjust prison time, heart-wrenching loss, etc.—that, by the end of the book, the sudden shift of tone from social realism to political propagation is jarring. The gospel of socialism appears as less of a solution to Jurgis' troubles and more of an afterthought.
This isn't to say The Jungle isn't enjoyable or worthwhile. Outrage and pity are morally indulgent, even addictive emotions—and the novel supplies a hardy dose at a sweeping pace. Plus, Sinclair's portrait of early 20th century Chicago is vivid and educational. I finished this read with both a distaste for sausage as well as a deeper understanding of our nation in the throes of industrialization.
