What do you think?
Rate this book
440 pages, Hardcover
First published September 5, 1957
"There was an old Negro couple in the field with us. They picked cotton with the same God-blessed patience their grandfathers had practiced in ante-bellum Alabama."
"...I had been attending school and romancing around with a girl called Lucille, a beautiful Italian honey-haired darling that I actually wanted to marry"
"Finally he came out with it: he wanted me to work Marylou."
Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road.
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted鈥�
鈥here was nothing behind me any more, all my bridges were gone and I didn鈥檛 give a damn about anything at all.
鈥淣othing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road.鈥�
鈥淚 was surprised, as always, by how easy the act of leaving was, and how good it felt. The world was suddenly rich with possibility.鈥�
鈥淏ecause he had no place he could stay in without getting tired of it and because there was nowhere to go but everywhere, keep rolling under the stars...鈥�
鈥淭he only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes 鈥淎www!鈥�
I first met Dean not long after my wife and I split up. I had just gotten over a serious illness that I won't bother to talk about, except that it had something to do with the miserably weary split-up and my feeling that everything was dead. With the coming of Dean Moriarty began the part of my life you could call my life on the road.
He was simply a youth tremendously excited with life, and though he was a con-man, he was only conning because he wanted so much to live and to get involved with people who would otherwise pay no attention to him.
The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved. The ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.