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毓賱賶 丕賱胤乇賷賯
賴丕 賯丿 乇丨賱 丿賷賳貙 賮賰乇鬲貙 賵賯賱鬲 亘氐賵鬲 賲爻賲賵毓 "爻賷賰賵賳 亘禺賷乇". 賵丕賳胤賱賯賳丕 丕賱賶 丕賱兀賲爻賷丞 丕賱鬲賷 賱賲 鬲賰賳 賱丿賷 兀賷 乇睾亘丞 賮賷賴丕 賵賰賳鬲 胤賵丕賱 丕賱賵賯鬲 兀賮賰乇 亘丿賷賳 賵賰賷賮 爻賷賯胤毓 亘丕賱賯胤丕乇 孬賱丕孬丞 丌賱丕賮 賲賷賱 毓賱賶 鬲賱賰 丕賱兀乇囟 丕賱乇賴賷亘丞貙 賵賱賲 賷賰賳 賯丿 噩丕亍 兀氐賱丕賸 賱乇丐賷鬲賷賳. 廿匕丕賸貙 賮賷 兀賲賷乇賰丕貙 丨賷賳 鬲睾賷亘 丕賱卮賲爻貙 賵兀噩賱爻 毓賱賶 丕賱乇氐賷賮 丕賱賲丨胤賲 毓賳丿 丕賱賳賴乇 賳丕馗乇丕賸 丕賱賶 丕賱爻賲丕賵丕鬲 丕賱賲賲鬲丿丞 賮賵賯 賳賷賵噩賷乇夭賷貙 卮丕毓乇丕賸 亘賰賱 鬲賱賰 丕賱兀乇囟 丕賱禺丕賲 鬲賲囟賷 亘賱丕 鬲賵賯賮 毓賳丿 丕賱睾乇亘貙 賵賰賱 鬲賱賰 丕賱胤乇賯 鬲賲囟賷貙 賵賰賱 丕賱賳丕爻 賷丨賱賲賵賳貙 賵賮賷 兀賷賵丕 兀毓乇賮 兀賳 孬賲丞 丕賱丌賳 兀胤賮丕賱丕賸 賱丕 亘丿 兀賳賴賲 賷亘賰賵賳 賮賷 丕賱兀乇囟 丕賱鬲賷 賷爻賲丨 賮賷賴丕 賱賱兀胤賮丕賱 亘丕賱亘賰丕亍貙 賵丕賱賱賷賱丞 爻鬲卮乇賯 丕賱賳噩賵賲貙 賵賳噩賲丞 丕賱賲爻丕亍 鬲賱賯賷 卮毓丕毓賴丕 丕賱賲鬲賵賴噩 毓賱賶 丕賱亘乇丕乇賷貙 賯亘賱 賴亘賵胤 丕賱賱賷賱 丕賱賰丕賲賱 丕賱匕賷 賷亘丕乇賰 丕賱兀乇囟貙 賵賷毓鬲賲 賰賱 丕賱兀賳賴乇貙 賵賷丨噩賲 匕乇賶 丕賱噩亘丕賱貙 賵賷胤賵賷 丕賱卮胤丌賳貙 賵賱丕 兀丨丿 賷毓乇賮 賲丕匕丕 爻賷丨丿孬 賱兀賷 賰丕賳 爻賵賶 乇孬丕孬丞 賵亘丐爻 兀賳 賷氐賷乇 賰賴賱丕賸貙 兀賮賰乇 賮賷 丿賷賳 賲賵乇賷丕鬲賷貙 兀賮賰乇 丨鬲賶 賮賷 丿賷賳 賲賵乇賷丕鬲賷 丕賱毓噩賵夭貙 丕賱兀亘 丕賱匕賷 賱賲 賳毓孬乇 毓賱賷賴 兀亘丿丕賸貙 兀賮賰乇 賮賷 丿賷賳 賲賵乇賷丕乇鬲賷." 丕賳 賲丕 丨丕賵賱 噩丕賰 賰乇賵丕賰 丕賳噩丕夭賴 賮賷 丿乇丕爻鬲賴 "毓賱賶 丕賱胤乇賷賯" 賴賵 賮賷 鬲丨賵賷賱賴 丕賱卮禺氐賷丞 "丕賱亘賷鬲 Beat" 禺氐賵氐丕賸 毓亘乇 亘胤賱 乇賵丕賷鬲賴 丿賷賳 賲賵乇賷丕乇鬲賷 丕賱鬲賷 賷鬲賲丨賵乇 丕賱毓賲賱 丨賵賱賴丕貙 丕賱賶 賳賵毓 賲賳 丕賱兀爻胤賵乇丞 丕賱噩丿賷丿丞貙 丕賱賶 丨丕賲賱 乇爻丕賱丞 賮賯丿鬲貙 賵丕賱賶 亘胤賱 噩丿賷丿 賲賳 丕賱睾乇亘 丕賱兀賲乇賷賰賷" 賲孬賱賲丕 賷賯賵賱 賮賷 亘丿丕賷丞 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞貙 賮丕鬲丨丕賸 丕賱胤乇賷賯 賵丕爻毓丞 兀賲丕賲 噩賷賱 噩丿賷丿 賲賳 丕賱卮亘丕亘 丕賱鬲賵丕賯 丕賱賶 丕賱鬲毓亘賷乇 毓賳 賳賮爻賴貙 丕賱亘丕丨孬 毓賳 賴賵賷丞 賲睾丕賷乇丞 賱賲丕 鬲丨丕賵賱 丕賱賲丐爻爻丞 丕賱乇爻賲賷丞 丕賱賲丨丕賮馗丞貙 丕賱爻賷丕爻賷丞 賵丕賱廿噩鬲賲丕毓賷丞 賵丕賱孬賯丕賮賷丞貙 丕乇爻丕亍賴 賮賷 兀賲乇賷賰丕 亘毓丿 丕賱丨乇亘 丕賱毓丕賱賲賷丞 丕賱孬丕賳賷丞 賵亘丿丕賷丕鬲 "丕賱丨乇亘 丕賱亘丕乇丿丞". 賵 "亘賷鬲 Beat" 賴賷 賱賮馗丞 鬲毓賳賷 氐賮丞 賮賷 丕賱賲丨賰賷丞 丕賱兀賲乇賷賰賷丞 丕賱賷賵賲賷丞 賱賱卮禺氐 丕賱賲鬲毓亘貙 兀賵 丕賱乇孬貙 兀賵 丕賱賲賳亘賵匕貙 兀賵 丕賱賴丕賲卮賷貙 賵賴賷 氐賮丞 賱噩賷賱 馗賴乇 亘毓丿 丕賱丨乇亘 丕賱毓丕賱賲賷丞 丕賱孬丕賳賷丞 丕賱匕賷 "賷毓乇賾賮" 賮賷賴 噩賵賳 賰賱賱賵賳 賴賵賱賲夭 "噩賷賱 丕賱亘賷鬲" 賵賷賲賷夭 亘賷賳賴 賵亘賷賳 "丕賱噩賷賱 丕賱囟丕卅毓" 丕賱鬲賷 兀胤賱賯賴丕 睾乇鬲乇賵丿 卮鬲丕賷賳貙 賵丕賱鬲賷 鬲丿賱 丿賱丕賱丞 賵丕囟丨丞: 兀賳賴賲 丕賱賰鬲丕亘 (丕賱兀賲賷乇賰賷賵賳貙 禺氐賵氐丕賸) 丕賱匕賷賳 賳卮兀賵丕 兀賵 賰鬲亘賵丕 丕賳胤賱丕賯丕賸 賲賳 鬲噩乇亘丞 丕賱丨乇亘 丕賱毓丕賱賲賷丞 丕賱兀賵賱賶. 賵亘丕賱毓賵丿丞貙 賮丕賳賴 丕囟丕賮丞 鬲毓亘賷乇 "噩賷賱" 丕賱賶 "丕賱亘賷鬲" 賰丕賳鬲 賰丕賮賷丞 賱賱丕卮丕乇丞 丕賱賶 賵賱丕丿丞 卮賷亍 賰亘賷乇 賵賲賴賲 賵噩賵賴乇賷貙 賷亘丨孬 兀氐丨丕亘賴 毓賳 賲賰丕賳丞 賷乇賵賳 兀賳賴賲 賷爻鬲丨賯賵賳賴丕貙 賱鬲鬲丨賵賱 "丕賱賴夭賷賲丞" 賮賷 丕賱賲丨賲賵賱 丕賱兀爻丕爻賷 賱賱賰賱賲丞 丕賱賶 "丕賳噩丕夭"貙 賵"丕賱鬲毓亘" 丕賱賶 "氐丨賵丞" 賵 "丕賱賴丕賲卮賷丞" 丕賱賶 "丨囟賵乇 賵丕賳鬲卮丕乇" 賵 "丕賱乇孬丕孬丞" 丕賱賶 "爻賲賵賾 賵乇賮毓丞". 賴賰匕丕 賷丨賵賾賱 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 "毓賱賶 丕賱胤乇賷賯" 爻丕賱 亘丕乇丕丿丕賷夭 (兀賷 噩丕賰 賰乇賵丕賰貙 賱丕丨馗 丕賱丿賱丕賱丞 賮賷 丕爻賲 亘丕乇丕丿丕賷夭 "丕賱噩賳丞") 亘胤賱賴 丿賷賳 賲賵乇賷丕乇鬲賷貙 賲賳 "禺乇賷噩 爻噩賵賳 賲爻鬲賱亘 亘丕賱丕丨鬲賲丕賱丕鬲 丕賱孬賯丕賮賷丞 丕賱乇丕卅毓丞" 丕賱賶 "亘賳賶" 賲毓丕氐乇貙 "賱賲 賷賲丕乇爻 丕賱丕丨鬲賷丕賱 丕賱丕 賱兀賳賴 丕賱賶 賴匕丕 丕賱丨丿 兀乇丕丿 兀賳 賷毓賷卮"貙 賱賷氐亘丨 丕賱乇賵丕卅賷 "賰乇丕賵賰" 賳賮爻賴貙 毓賱賶 賳丨賵 賲丕貙賳丕賯賱 賴匕賴 丕賱乇爻丕賱丞貙 賵賱賷氐亘丨 亘丕賱鬲丕賱賷 "乇爻賵賱丕賸"賲賵丕夭賷丕賸貙 賵賱鬲氐亘丨 "毓賱賶 丕賱胤乇賷賯" 賴賷 丕賱乇爻丕賱丞 亘毓賷賳賴丕
398 pages
First published September 5, 1957
20203 people are currently reading
338531 people want to read
About the author
Jack Kerouac
457听books11.3k听followersJean-Louis Lebris de K茅rouac, known as Jack Kerouac, was an American novelist and poet who, alongside William S. Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg, was a pioneer of the Beat Generation.
Of French-Canadian ancestry, Kerouac was raised in a French-speaking home in Lowell, Massachusetts. He "learned English at age six and spoke with a marked accent into his late teens." During World War II, he served in the United States Merchant Marine; he completed his first novel at the time, which was published more than 40 years after his death. His first published book was The Town and the City (1950), and he achieved widespread fame and notoriety with his second, On the Road, in 1957. It made him a beat icon, and he went on to publish 12 more novels and numerous poetry volumes.
Kerouac is recognized for his style of stream of consciousness spontaneous prose. Thematically, his work covers topics such as his Catholic spirituality, jazz, travel, promiscuity, life in New York City, Buddhism, drugs, and poverty. He became an underground celebrity and, with other Beats, a progenitor of the hippie movement, although he remained antagonistic toward some of its politically radical elements. He has a lasting legacy, greatly influencing many of the cultural icons of the 1960s, including Bob Dylan, The Beatles, Jerry Garcia and The Doors.
In 1969, at the age of 47, Kerouac died from an abdominal hemorrhage caused by a lifetime of heavy drinking. Since then, his literary prestige has grown, and several previously unseen works have been published.
Of French-Canadian ancestry, Kerouac was raised in a French-speaking home in Lowell, Massachusetts. He "learned English at age six and spoke with a marked accent into his late teens." During World War II, he served in the United States Merchant Marine; he completed his first novel at the time, which was published more than 40 years after his death. His first published book was The Town and the City (1950), and he achieved widespread fame and notoriety with his second, On the Road, in 1957. It made him a beat icon, and he went on to publish 12 more novels and numerous poetry volumes.
Kerouac is recognized for his style of stream of consciousness spontaneous prose. Thematically, his work covers topics such as his Catholic spirituality, jazz, travel, promiscuity, life in New York City, Buddhism, drugs, and poverty. He became an underground celebrity and, with other Beats, a progenitor of the hippie movement, although he remained antagonistic toward some of its politically radical elements. He has a lasting legacy, greatly influencing many of the cultural icons of the 1960s, including Bob Dylan, The Beatles, Jerry Garcia and The Doors.
In 1969, at the age of 47, Kerouac died from an abdominal hemorrhage caused by a lifetime of heavy drinking. Since then, his literary prestige has grown, and several previously unseen works have been published.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 21,803 reviews
December 4, 2013
A View from the Couch
OTR has received some negative reviews lately, so I thought I would try to explain my rating.
This novel deserves to lounge around in a five star hotel rather than languish in a lone star saloon.
Disclaimer
Please forgive my review. It is early morning and I have just woken up with a sore head, an empty bed and a full bladder.
Confesssion
Let me begin with a confession that dearly wants to become an assertion.
I probably read this book before most of you were born.
So there!
Wouldn't you love to say that!
If only I had the courage of my convictions.
Instead, I have only convictions, and they are many and varied.
However, I am sure that by the end of my (this) sentence, I shall be released.
Elevated to the Bar
I read OTR in my teens, which were spread all over the end of the 60's and the beginning of the 70's.
My life was dominated by Scouting for Boys.
I mean the book, not the activity.
My mantra was "be prepared", although at the time I didn't realise that this actually meant "be prepared for war".
After reading OTR, my new mantra was "be inebriated".
Mind you, I had no idea what alcohol tasted like, but it sounded good.
Gone were two boys in a tent and three men in a boat.
OTR was about trying to get four beats in a bar, no matter how far you'd travelled that day.
Typing or Writing
Forget whether it was just typing rather than writing.
That was just Truman Capote trying to dot one of Dorothy Parker's eyes.
This is like focusing on the mince instead of the sausage.
All Drums and Symbols
You have to appreciate what OTR symbolised for people like me.
It was "On the Road", not "In the House" or "In the Burbs".
It was about dynamism, not passivity.
It wasn't about a stream of consciousness, it was about a river of activity.
It was about "white light, white heat", not "white picket fences".
Savouring the Sausage
OK, your impressions are probably more recent than mine.
Mine are memories that have been influenced by years of indulgence. (I do maintain that alcohol kills the unhealthy brain cells first, so it is actually purifying your brain.)
I simply ask that you overlook the mince and savour the sausage.
Beyond Ephemerality
I would like to make one last parting metaphor.
I have misappropriated it from the musician, Dave Graney.
He talks about "feeling ephemeral, but looking eternal".
Dave comes from the Church of the Latter Day Hipsters.
He is way cooler than me, he even looks great in leather pants, in a spivvy kinda way.
However, I think the point he was making (if not, then the point I am making) is that most of life is ephemeral. It just happens and it's gone forever.
However, in Dave's case, the way he looks, the way he feels, he turns it into something eternal.
It's his art, his music, our pleasure, our memories (at least until we die).
Footnotes on Cool
Creativity and style are our last chance attempt to defy ephemerality and mortality and become eternal.
Yes, all that stuff between the bookends of OTR might be typing, it might be preserving ephemerality that wasn't worthy or deserving.
However, the point is the attempt to be your own personal version of cool.
Heck, no way am I cool like the Beats or James Dean or Marlon Brando or Jack Nicholson or Clint Eastwood or Keith Richards or Camille Paglia.
However, I am trying to live life beyond the ephemeral.
That's what OTR means to me.
If it doesn't mean that to you, hey, that's alright. I'm OK, you're OK. It's cool.
Original posted: March 01, 2011
OTR has received some negative reviews lately, so I thought I would try to explain my rating.
This novel deserves to lounge around in a five star hotel rather than languish in a lone star saloon.
Disclaimer
Please forgive my review. It is early morning and I have just woken up with a sore head, an empty bed and a full bladder.
Confesssion
Let me begin with a confession that dearly wants to become an assertion.
I probably read this book before most of you were born.
So there!
Wouldn't you love to say that!
If only I had the courage of my convictions.
Instead, I have only convictions, and they are many and varied.
However, I am sure that by the end of my (this) sentence, I shall be released.
Elevated to the Bar
I read OTR in my teens, which were spread all over the end of the 60's and the beginning of the 70's.
My life was dominated by Scouting for Boys.
I mean the book, not the activity.
My mantra was "be prepared", although at the time I didn't realise that this actually meant "be prepared for war".
After reading OTR, my new mantra was "be inebriated".
Mind you, I had no idea what alcohol tasted like, but it sounded good.
Gone were two boys in a tent and three men in a boat.
OTR was about trying to get four beats in a bar, no matter how far you'd travelled that day.
Typing or Writing
Forget whether it was just typing rather than writing.
That was just Truman Capote trying to dot one of Dorothy Parker's eyes.
This is like focusing on the mince instead of the sausage.
All Drums and Symbols
You have to appreciate what OTR symbolised for people like me.
It was "On the Road", not "In the House" or "In the Burbs".
It was about dynamism, not passivity.
It wasn't about a stream of consciousness, it was about a river of activity.
It was about "white light, white heat", not "white picket fences".
Savouring the Sausage
OK, your impressions are probably more recent than mine.
Mine are memories that have been influenced by years of indulgence. (I do maintain that alcohol kills the unhealthy brain cells first, so it is actually purifying your brain.)
I simply ask that you overlook the mince and savour the sausage.
Beyond Ephemerality
I would like to make one last parting metaphor.
I have misappropriated it from the musician, Dave Graney.
He talks about "feeling ephemeral, but looking eternal".
Dave comes from the Church of the Latter Day Hipsters.
He is way cooler than me, he even looks great in leather pants, in a spivvy kinda way.
However, I think the point he was making (if not, then the point I am making) is that most of life is ephemeral. It just happens and it's gone forever.
However, in Dave's case, the way he looks, the way he feels, he turns it into something eternal.
It's his art, his music, our pleasure, our memories (at least until we die).
Footnotes on Cool
Creativity and style are our last chance attempt to defy ephemerality and mortality and become eternal.
Yes, all that stuff between the bookends of OTR might be typing, it might be preserving ephemerality that wasn't worthy or deserving.
However, the point is the attempt to be your own personal version of cool.
Heck, no way am I cool like the Beats or James Dean or Marlon Brando or Jack Nicholson or Clint Eastwood or Keith Richards or Camille Paglia.
However, I am trying to live life beyond the ephemeral.
That's what OTR means to me.
If it doesn't mean that to you, hey, that's alright. I'm OK, you're OK. It's cool.
Original posted: March 01, 2011
January 8, 2014
This is probably the worst book I have ever finished, and I'm forever indebted to the deeply personality-disordered college professor who assigned it, because if it hadn't been for that class I never would've gotten through, and I gotta tell you, this is the book I love to hate.
I deeply cherish but don't know that I fully agree with Truman Capote's assessment: that __ "is not writing at all -- it's typing."
Lovely, Turman, but let's be clear: typing by itself is fairly innocuous -- this book is so awful it's actually offensive, and even incredibly damaging.
I'd be lying if I said there aren't parts of this book that're so bad they're good -- good as in morbidly fascinating, in the manner of advanced-stage syphilis slides from seventh-grade health class. Keroac's ode to the sad-eyed Negro is actually an incredible, incredible example of.... something I'm glad has been typed. For the record. So we can all see it clearly, and KNOW.
Please don't get me wrong! My disproportionately massive loathing for Jack Kerouac has zero to do with his unenlightened racial views. I mean, it was written in the fifties, and anyway, it's great that he was able to articulate these ideas so honestly. No, the real reason I hate this book so much is that it established a deeply retarded model of European-American male coolness that continues to plague our culture today.
I could go into a lot more depth on this topic, but it's come to my attention that I've been using my horrible addiction to Bookster to avoid the many obligations and responsiblities of my daily life, to which I should now return. So, in closing: this book SUCKS. This book is UNBELIEVABLY TERRIBLE. And for that very reason, especially considering its serious and detrimental impact on western civilization, I definitely recommend that you read it, if you have not suffered that grave misfortune already.
I deeply cherish but don't know that I fully agree with Truman Capote's assessment: that __ "is not writing at all -- it's typing."
Lovely, Turman, but let's be clear: typing by itself is fairly innocuous -- this book is so awful it's actually offensive, and even incredibly damaging.
I'd be lying if I said there aren't parts of this book that're so bad they're good -- good as in morbidly fascinating, in the manner of advanced-stage syphilis slides from seventh-grade health class. Keroac's ode to the sad-eyed Negro is actually an incredible, incredible example of.... something I'm glad has been typed. For the record. So we can all see it clearly, and KNOW.
Please don't get me wrong! My disproportionately massive loathing for Jack Kerouac has zero to do with his unenlightened racial views. I mean, it was written in the fifties, and anyway, it's great that he was able to articulate these ideas so honestly. No, the real reason I hate this book so much is that it established a deeply retarded model of European-American male coolness that continues to plague our culture today.
I could go into a lot more depth on this topic, but it's come to my attention that I've been using my horrible addiction to Bookster to avoid the many obligations and responsiblities of my daily life, to which I should now return. So, in closing: this book SUCKS. This book is UNBELIEVABLY TERRIBLE. And for that very reason, especially considering its serious and detrimental impact on western civilization, I definitely recommend that you read it, if you have not suffered that grave misfortune already.
April 25, 2007
I'm supposed to like On the Road, right? Well, I don't. I hate it and I always have. There are a lot of reasons why I hate it. I find Kerouac's attitude toward the world pathetically limited and paternalistic. In
he actually muses about how much he wishes that he could have been born "a Negro in the antebellum South," living a simple life free from worry, and does so seemingly without any sense of irony. On every page, the book is about how Kerouac (a young, white, middle-class, solipsistic alcoholic) feels, and nothing more. But that's only one reason I hate this book. The main reason I hate it is because, for me, reading Kerouac's prose is almost physically painful. I love the ramblings of self-centered drunks when they're self-deprecating, ironic, and/or funny, but Kerouac was none of these things. He was a pretentious, self-important bore who produced some of the most painfully bad and inconsequential prose of the 20th century. Or any century.
December 1, 2024
I think this book, which launched Kerouac's career and gave him insta-fame, has to be seen as a product of its time.
I found it a chore to read, a long dull boast about a series of road trips. It's populated by vacuous largely despicable alcoholics with zero impulse control and an unshakeable belief that they are deeply profound observers of the human condition.
One saving grace of the book is that Kerouac has an unusual writing style with a strong voice that he uses well, especially when describing the landscapes and cities as his avatar rushes to and fro across America.
The other is that the 'shocking' nature of the book back in 1955, immersed in drugs, alcohol, and sexuality, five years before a court case finally allowed the rather tame to be published in the UK, 32 years after it was written, has been replaced with a certain historical interest in the modern reader seeing how things worked over 60 years ago.
The book garnered so much interest because it was said to capture zeitgeist of the beat generation - it variously explained and/or titillated with an under the hood look at the youth movement of the late 40s/early 50s that led into rock and roll and on into hippydom. We also see the young white male characters mixing with African Americans and Hispanics decades before the civil rights movement.
Kerouac's avatar, Sal Paradise, follows Dean Moriarty, a hollow messiah of the age, and together they haunt jazz and bop clubs trying to capture "it" and waxing ecstatically about saxophonists blowing.
We see several years of the pair's directionless lives, Dean oscillating between three women, spawning and abandoning children, dropping everything repeatedly on a whim to cross America east to west or back again, and finally to Mexico City.
The pair cheat and steal their way while claiming to savour the goodness of those they encounter. Dean has to be warned off the 13 year old daughter of a friend, and later in Mexico they sleep with 15 year old prostitutes.
In a manner familiar in Dickens and Dostoevsky, and more recently echoed by Rothfuss, our characters are always penniless, generally because if they get money they spend it at a ridiculous rate until they have none.
Dean and Sal are characterised by a refusal to look beyond the next hour. The consequences of their actions are of little concern to them because they feel no responsibility for them.
I realise that I sound like a scolding schoolmarm, the epitome of everything this book was likely a reaction to. But after hundreds of pages of having their reaction forced down my throat I have my own reaction back against it. No, I don't dig it.
And it being a travelogue based on real experience there is of course no plot and as it turns out no real sense of progression, which led to the book feeling rather samey after a while. It was apparently hand written on a roll of wallpaper and it really does feel rather like a long list of "and then and then and then".
I was moved to try Kerouac back in the 80s by a line in a Marillion song, "read some Kerouac and it put me on the track to burn a little brighter now". Yes, this is a book about living at full throttle (and much of it is spent shooting across the States at 110mph), about burning the candle at both ends, about not living a milk toast life, it shouts at you "what are you saving yourself for?" and those ideas of course hold a certain appeal. But then again, when you look at the sad sacks in this book ... maybe not.
The second star is for the quality of the prose. In fact both of them are.
...
I found it a chore to read, a long dull boast about a series of road trips. It's populated by vacuous largely despicable alcoholics with zero impulse control and an unshakeable belief that they are deeply profound observers of the human condition.
One saving grace of the book is that Kerouac has an unusual writing style with a strong voice that he uses well, especially when describing the landscapes and cities as his avatar rushes to and fro across America.
The other is that the 'shocking' nature of the book back in 1955, immersed in drugs, alcohol, and sexuality, five years before a court case finally allowed the rather tame to be published in the UK, 32 years after it was written, has been replaced with a certain historical interest in the modern reader seeing how things worked over 60 years ago.
The book garnered so much interest because it was said to capture zeitgeist of the beat generation - it variously explained and/or titillated with an under the hood look at the youth movement of the late 40s/early 50s that led into rock and roll and on into hippydom. We also see the young white male characters mixing with African Americans and Hispanics decades before the civil rights movement.
Kerouac's avatar, Sal Paradise, follows Dean Moriarty, a hollow messiah of the age, and together they haunt jazz and bop clubs trying to capture "it" and waxing ecstatically about saxophonists blowing.
We see several years of the pair's directionless lives, Dean oscillating between three women, spawning and abandoning children, dropping everything repeatedly on a whim to cross America east to west or back again, and finally to Mexico City.
The pair cheat and steal their way while claiming to savour the goodness of those they encounter. Dean has to be warned off the 13 year old daughter of a friend, and later in Mexico they sleep with 15 year old prostitutes.
In a manner familiar in Dickens and Dostoevsky, and more recently echoed by Rothfuss, our characters are always penniless, generally because if they get money they spend it at a ridiculous rate until they have none.
Dean and Sal are characterised by a refusal to look beyond the next hour. The consequences of their actions are of little concern to them because they feel no responsibility for them.
I realise that I sound like a scolding schoolmarm, the epitome of everything this book was likely a reaction to. But after hundreds of pages of having their reaction forced down my throat I have my own reaction back against it. No, I don't dig it.
And it being a travelogue based on real experience there is of course no plot and as it turns out no real sense of progression, which led to the book feeling rather samey after a while. It was apparently hand written on a roll of wallpaper and it really does feel rather like a long list of "and then and then and then".
I was moved to try Kerouac back in the 80s by a line in a Marillion song, "read some Kerouac and it put me on the track to burn a little brighter now". Yes, this is a book about living at full throttle (and much of it is spent shooting across the States at 110mph), about burning the candle at both ends, about not living a milk toast life, it shouts at you "what are you saving yourself for?" and those ideas of course hold a certain appeal. But then again, when you look at the sad sacks in this book ... maybe not.
The second star is for the quality of the prose. In fact both of them are.
...
October 9, 2013
This is the book which has given me anxiety attacks on sleepless nights.
This is the book which has glared at me from its high pedestal of classical importance in an effort to browbeat me into finally finishing it.
And this is that book which has shamed me into feigning an air of ignorance every time I browsed any of the countless 1001-books-to-read-before-you-die lists.
Yes Jack Kerouac, you have tormented me for the past 3 years and every day I couldn't summon the strength to open another page of 'On the Road' and subject my brain to the all-too-familiar torture of Sal's sleep-inducing, infuriatingly monotonous narration.
Finally, I conquer you after nearly 3 years of dithering. I am the victorious one in the battle in which you have relentlessly assaulted my finer senses with your crassness and innate insipidity and dared me to plod on. I can finally beat my chest in triumph (ugh pardon the Tarzan-ish metaphor but a 1-star review deserves no better) and announce to the world that I have finished reading 'On the Road'. Oh what an achievement! And what a monumental waste of my time.
Dear Beat Generation classic, I can finally state without any fear of being called out on my ignorance that I absolutely hated reading you. Every moment of it.
Alternatively, this book can be named White Heterosexual Man's Misadventures and Chauvinistic Musings. And even that makes it sound much more interesting and less offensive than it actually is.
In terms of geographical sweep, the narrative covers nearly the whole of America in the 50s weaving its way in and out of Los Angeles and New York and San Francisco and many other major American cities. Through the eyes of Salvatore 'Sal' Paradise, a professional bum, we are given an extended peek into the lives of a band of merry have-nots, their hapless trysts with women, booze, drugs, homelessness, destitution, jazz as they hitchhike and motor their way through the heart of America.
Sounds fascinating right? (Ayn Rand will vehemently disagree though).
But no, it's anything but that. Instead this one just shoves Jack Kerouac's internalized white superiority, sexism and homophobia right in the reader's face in the form of some truly bad writing. This book might as well come with a caption warning any potential reader who isn't White or male or straight. I understand that this was written way before it became politically incorrect to portray women in such a poor light or wistfully contemplate living a "Negro's life" in the antebellum South. But there's an obvious limit to the amount of his vile ruminations I can tolerate.
Seriously? God-blessed patience?
Every female character in this one is a vague silhouette or a caricature of a proper human being. Marylou, Camille, Terry, Galatea are all frighteningly one-dimensional - they never come alive for the reader through Sal's myopic vision. They are merely there as inanimate props reduced to the status of languishing in the background and occasionally allowed to be in the limelight when the men begin referring to them as if they were objects.
Either they are 'whores' for being as sexually liberated as the men are or they are screaming wives who throw their husbands out of the house for being jobless, cheating drunks or they are opportunistic and evil simply because they do not find Sal or Dean or Remy or Ed or any of the men in their lives to be deserving of their trust and respect, which they truly aren't.
And sometimes, they are only worthy of only a one or two-line description like the following:-
Look at Sal talking about a woman as if she were a breed of cat he wanted to rescue from the animal shelter.
Is Marylou a wrench or a machine of some kind?
And this is not to mention the countless instances of 'get you a girl', 'get girls', 'Let's get a girl' and other minor variations of the same strewn throughout the length of the book and some of Sal's thoughts about 'queers' which are equally revolting.
Maybe I am too much of a non-American with no ties to a real person who sees the Beat era through the lenses of pure nostalgia or maybe I am simply incapable of appreciating the themes of youthful wanderlust and living life with a perverse aimlessness or maybe it's the flat writing and appalling representation of women. Whatever the real reason(s) maybe, I can state with conviction that this is the only American classic which I tried to the best of my abilities to appreciate but failed.
This is the book which has glared at me from its high pedestal of classical importance in an effort to browbeat me into finally finishing it.
And this is that book which has shamed me into feigning an air of ignorance every time I browsed any of the countless 1001-books-to-read-before-you-die lists.
Yes Jack Kerouac, you have tormented me for the past 3 years and every day I couldn't summon the strength to open another page of 'On the Road' and subject my brain to the all-too-familiar torture of Sal's sleep-inducing, infuriatingly monotonous narration.
Finally, I conquer you after nearly 3 years of dithering. I am the victorious one in the battle in which you have relentlessly assaulted my finer senses with your crassness and innate insipidity and dared me to plod on. I can finally beat my chest in triumph (ugh pardon the Tarzan-ish metaphor but a 1-star review deserves no better) and announce to the world that I have finished reading 'On the Road'. Oh what an achievement! And what a monumental waste of my time.
Dear Beat Generation classic, I can finally state without any fear of being called out on my ignorance that I absolutely hated reading you. Every moment of it.
Alternatively, this book can be named White Heterosexual Man's Misadventures and Chauvinistic Musings. And even that makes it sound much more interesting and less offensive than it actually is.
In terms of geographical sweep, the narrative covers nearly the whole of America in the 50s weaving its way in and out of Los Angeles and New York and San Francisco and many other major American cities. Through the eyes of Salvatore 'Sal' Paradise, a professional bum, we are given an extended peek into the lives of a band of merry have-nots, their hapless trysts with women, booze, drugs, homelessness, destitution, jazz as they hitchhike and motor their way through the heart of America.
Sounds fascinating right? (Ayn Rand will vehemently disagree though).
But no, it's anything but that. Instead this one just shoves Jack Kerouac's internalized white superiority, sexism and homophobia right in the reader's face in the form of some truly bad writing. This book might as well come with a caption warning any potential reader who isn't White or male or straight. I understand that this was written way before it became politically incorrect to portray women in such a poor light or wistfully contemplate living a "Negro's life" in the antebellum South. But there's an obvious limit to the amount of his vile ruminations I can tolerate.
"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."
Seriously? God-blessed patience?
Every female character in this one is a vague silhouette or a caricature of a proper human being. Marylou, Camille, Terry, Galatea are all frighteningly one-dimensional - they never come alive for the reader through Sal's myopic vision. They are merely there as inanimate props reduced to the status of languishing in the background and occasionally allowed to be in the limelight when the men begin referring to them as if they were objects.
Either they are 'whores' for being as sexually liberated as the men are or they are screaming wives who throw their husbands out of the house for being jobless, cheating drunks or they are opportunistic and evil simply because they do not find Sal or Dean or Remy or Ed or any of the men in their lives to be deserving of their trust and respect, which they truly aren't.
And sometimes, they are only worthy of only a one or two-line description like the following:-
"...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"
Look at Sal talking about a woman as if she were a breed of cat he wanted to rescue from the animal shelter.
"Finally he came out with it: he wanted me to work Marylou."
Is Marylou a wrench or a machine of some kind?
And this is not to mention the countless instances of 'get you a girl', 'get girls', 'Let's get a girl' and other minor variations of the same strewn throughout the length of the book and some of Sal's thoughts about 'queers' which are equally revolting.
Maybe I am too much of a non-American with no ties to a real person who sees the Beat era through the lenses of pure nostalgia or maybe I am simply incapable of appreciating the themes of youthful wanderlust and living life with a perverse aimlessness or maybe it's the flat writing and appalling representation of women. Whatever the real reason(s) maybe, I can state with conviction that this is the only American classic which I tried to the best of my abilities to appreciate but failed.
August 18, 2024
This book bored me to tears. I dreaded each time I had to read this.
On The Road is a book about aman child young man named Sal who hitches rides across the country, giggling, having a string of meaningless relationships with characters that never reappear, and Sal worshipping his bestie, Dean, who has very little redeeming qualities.
The beginning of this book was promising. I thought it was going to be like Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, but it wasn鈥檛 funny.
In terms of a travelogue, this isn鈥檛 it. At one point, Sal travels to Detroit, but there aren鈥檛 even any details.
The entire book is some form of 鈥淗ey, man. That鈥檚 cool. That鈥檚 right. Cool. It鈥檚 all cool. Let鈥檚 go find some girls. Let鈥檚 talk about talking. Let鈥檚 hitch a ride.鈥� Nothing happened.
Sorry, Sal, Dean just isn't that into you.
Some critics argue that On the Road is a metaphor for the lost freedom of the American Dream. That is laughable. Sal and Dean have no ambition and no morals. Sal is offered a job with Eddie at one point, but he doesn't show up. Instead of putting in a bit of hustle, he bums off of women, particulary heartbreaking is his abuse of Terry, a single mother. Sal literally sleeps when he is supposed to be working!
Additionally, Sal is a poverty poser. Of course, it is all fun and games for him because he can always give his aunt a jingle and request more money as soon as being poor isn't fun anymore. She unquestioningly sends him cash without a moment's notice. How convenient!
This book is astonishingly bad. Although the characters were unpredictable, the character response was not. Anything could have happened, but the characters would just say something along the lines of, 鈥淭hat鈥檚 right! It鈥檚 all good.鈥� So the suspense never increased. Good grief! I was so bored that I was hoping that Dean would step in front of a train so the book could finally be over.
In 1951, Jack Kerouac wrote this book on a giant scroll with no formatting and no paragraph breaks. It should have stayed on the scroll. The jumbo paragraphs don鈥檛 help, and this book does feel like one really long rambling that doesn鈥檛 go anyplace.
At least now I can go around telling people that I have read Kerouac but I would rather have the 11 hours that I spent reading this back.
How much I spent:
Softcover text (Penguin Classics version) - 拢9.99 from Waterstones
Audiobook 鈥� 1 Audible Credit (Audible Premium Plus Annual 鈥� 24 Credits Membership Plan $229.50 or roughly $9.56 per credit)
2025 Reading Schedule
Jan A Town Like Alice
Feb Birdsong
Mar Captain Corelli's Mandolin - Louis De Berniere
Apr War and Peace
May The Woman in White
Jun Atonement
Jul The Shadow of the Wind
Aug Jude the Obscure
Sep Ulysses
Oct Vanity Fair
Nov A Fine Balance
Dec Germinal
Connect With Me!
On The Road is a book about a
The beginning of this book was promising. I thought it was going to be like Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, but it wasn鈥檛 funny.
In terms of a travelogue, this isn鈥檛 it. At one point, Sal travels to Detroit, but there aren鈥檛 even any details.
The entire book is some form of 鈥淗ey, man. That鈥檚 cool. That鈥檚 right. Cool. It鈥檚 all cool. Let鈥檚 go find some girls. Let鈥檚 talk about talking. Let鈥檚 hitch a ride.鈥� Nothing happened.
Sorry, Sal, Dean just isn't that into you.
Some critics argue that On the Road is a metaphor for the lost freedom of the American Dream. That is laughable. Sal and Dean have no ambition and no morals. Sal is offered a job with Eddie at one point, but he doesn't show up. Instead of putting in a bit of hustle, he bums off of women, particulary heartbreaking is his abuse of Terry, a single mother. Sal literally sleeps when he is supposed to be working!
Additionally, Sal is a poverty poser. Of course, it is all fun and games for him because he can always give his aunt a jingle and request more money as soon as being poor isn't fun anymore. She unquestioningly sends him cash without a moment's notice. How convenient!
This book is astonishingly bad. Although the characters were unpredictable, the character response was not. Anything could have happened, but the characters would just say something along the lines of, 鈥淭hat鈥檚 right! It鈥檚 all good.鈥� So the suspense never increased. Good grief! I was so bored that I was hoping that Dean would step in front of a train so the book could finally be over.
In 1951, Jack Kerouac wrote this book on a giant scroll with no formatting and no paragraph breaks. It should have stayed on the scroll. The jumbo paragraphs don鈥檛 help, and this book does feel like one really long rambling that doesn鈥檛 go anyplace.
At least now I can go around telling people that I have read Kerouac but I would rather have the 11 hours that I spent reading this back.
How much I spent:
Softcover text (Penguin Classics version) - 拢9.99 from Waterstones
Audiobook 鈥� 1 Audible Credit (Audible Premium Plus Annual 鈥� 24 Credits Membership Plan $229.50 or roughly $9.56 per credit)
2025 Reading Schedule
Jan A Town Like Alice
Feb Birdsong
Mar Captain Corelli's Mandolin - Louis De Berniere
Apr War and Peace
May The Woman in White
Jun Atonement
Jul The Shadow of the Wind
Aug Jude the Obscure
Sep Ulysses
Oct Vanity Fair
Nov A Fine Balance
Dec Germinal
Connect With Me!
August 13, 2007
I've been thinking about this book a lot lately, so I figured that I'd go back and write something about it.
When I first read this book, I loved it as a piece of art, but its effect on me was different than I expected. So many people hail Kerouac as the artist who made them quit their jobs and go to the road, become a hippie or a beat and give up the rest. When I read it though, I had been completely obsessed with hippie culture for a long time, and it caused me to steer away from it for a while. While I thought that it would be a rollicking tale of freedom and glory, I found that all of Dean's conquests were tainted by the fact that he had to take advantage of other people every step of the way. He was a hugely entertaining character, but would have been a terrible friend, lover, or even acquaintance. From the women he married to gas station attendents, right down to Sal Paradise himself, Dean drained everything that he was right out of other people, and it eventually ruined him. It left him beat...not heart beating exhilarated, but beat up, dead beat and alone. Once I stepped back a little from the awe at Dean's greatness, this book was really sad, and it caused me to put away that romanticism for a while.
Now, 2 years later, though, On the Road is coming back to me full on. I didn't escape the total wonder at the Beats and the road. I have been myself for the last 2 months and have a long way to go before I get back home, and I am constantly aware that the the way was paved by Kerouac and the rest of the crazy geniuses of his generation. The road is every bit as romantic as Sal Paradise made it out to be, and its glory far out weighs the short comings of Dean as a friend. I mean, the road is a lot like Dean, it takes a lot out of you, but you get addicted to it and obsessed with it and can't let it go, and I don't think there's any other way about it. I am in love with America for the first time. Now that I've seen it, driven across and up and down, around and over America, I find it sublime and incredible. I think that Kerouac and his friends might've been the first to see that. Maybe not. Maybe they are just part of all of American history...they translated the world of Western expansion and canvas covered wagons into the way of the modern world. America is something to dream about. It is worthy every exuberant and formerly offensive "I'm proud" sticker that's plastered on the back of a pick up truck. And Kerouac saw that first hand. So, it seems, that there is a certain tragedy in this book, but that it is less important than the unavoidable glory that you come to associate with the road and freedom after following these guys on their crazy adventure. I think this book should be read by everyone who wants to know about America.
When I first read this book, I loved it as a piece of art, but its effect on me was different than I expected. So many people hail Kerouac as the artist who made them quit their jobs and go to the road, become a hippie or a beat and give up the rest. When I read it though, I had been completely obsessed with hippie culture for a long time, and it caused me to steer away from it for a while. While I thought that it would be a rollicking tale of freedom and glory, I found that all of Dean's conquests were tainted by the fact that he had to take advantage of other people every step of the way. He was a hugely entertaining character, but would have been a terrible friend, lover, or even acquaintance. From the women he married to gas station attendents, right down to Sal Paradise himself, Dean drained everything that he was right out of other people, and it eventually ruined him. It left him beat...not heart beating exhilarated, but beat up, dead beat and alone. Once I stepped back a little from the awe at Dean's greatness, this book was really sad, and it caused me to put away that romanticism for a while.
Now, 2 years later, though, On the Road is coming back to me full on. I didn't escape the total wonder at the Beats and the road. I have been myself for the last 2 months and have a long way to go before I get back home, and I am constantly aware that the the way was paved by Kerouac and the rest of the crazy geniuses of his generation. The road is every bit as romantic as Sal Paradise made it out to be, and its glory far out weighs the short comings of Dean as a friend. I mean, the road is a lot like Dean, it takes a lot out of you, but you get addicted to it and obsessed with it and can't let it go, and I don't think there's any other way about it. I am in love with America for the first time. Now that I've seen it, driven across and up and down, around and over America, I find it sublime and incredible. I think that Kerouac and his friends might've been the first to see that. Maybe not. Maybe they are just part of all of American history...they translated the world of Western expansion and canvas covered wagons into the way of the modern world. America is something to dream about. It is worthy every exuberant and formerly offensive "I'm proud" sticker that's plastered on the back of a pick up truck. And Kerouac saw that first hand. So, it seems, that there is a certain tragedy in this book, but that it is less important than the unavoidable glory that you come to associate with the road and freedom after following these guys on their crazy adventure. I think this book should be read by everyone who wants to know about America.
October 11, 2019
Kerouac's masterpiece breathes youth and vigor for the duration and created the American bohemian "beat" lifestyle which has been the subject of innumerable subsequent books, songs, and movies. I have read this at least two or three times and always feel a bit breathless and invigorated because of the restlessness of the text and the vibrance of the characters. There was an extraordinary exhibit at the Pompidou Center earlier this year where the original draft in Kerouac's handwriting was laid out end to end in a glass case. It was like seeing the original copy of Don Quixote in the royal palace in Madrid - very moving. In any case, there is no excuse not to read this wonderful high point of mid-20th century American literature.
Re-read and found both beauty and sadness in this work. The sadness stems from the sexism, racism, and homophobia expressed throughout the book. Sign of the times, I know, but it is still painful to see that these Beat visionaries - for all their open-mindedness towards other religions and sex and drugs - still expressed such backwards views and attitudes sometimes
As for the beauty, the story of Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty crossing the US again and again with a last trip down to Mexico City is epic.
"I pictured myself in a Denver bar that night, with all the gang, and in their eyes I would be strange and ragged and like the Prophet who has walked across the land to bring the dark Word, and the only Word I had was "Wow!" (P. 37)
I have driven from Florida to San Francisco by myself and back again when I was in college and felt that Kerouac captured the enthusiasm that the memory still evokes in me:
"I thought, and looked every, as I had looked everywhere in the little world below. And before me was the great raw bulge and bulk of my American continent" (P. 79)
The descriptions of bebop jazz are absolutely astounding throughout as they listen to Prez, Bird, Dizzy...
"The pianist was only pounding the keys with spread-eagled fingers, chords, or at intervals when the great tenorman was drawing breath for another blast--Chinese chords, shuddering the piano in every timber, chink, and wire, boing!" (P. 197)
The writing makes you feel the musics energy pulsating and driving - that is one of my favorite aspects of On the Road:
"Holy flowers floating in the air, were all these tired forms in the dawn of Jazz America." (P. 204)
Other moments are surreal and yet moments I have known many times:
"Just about that time a strange thing began to haunt me. It was this: I had forgotten something. There was a decision that I was about to make before Dean showed up, and now it was driven clear out of my mind but still hung on the tip of my mind's tongue." (P. 124)
Or the feeling of mystery:
"This was a manuscript of the night that we couldn't read." (P. 158) and those that do not share their trip on the road "they stand uncertainly underneath immense skies, and everything about them is drowned." (P. 167)
I perhaps just ignored it in my previous readings, but this time I was struck by the heroin references. Old Bill was off in the bathroom tying up and yet taking care of his kids (alarming!)
Perhaps the predominant mood and attitude of the book and Kerouac's view of the period is summarized on Sal's 3rd trip to San Francisco:
"I realized that I had died and been reborn numberless times but just didn't remember especially because the transitions from life to death and back to life are so ghostly easy, a magical action for naught, like falling asleep and waking up again a million times, the utter casualness and deep ignorance of it. I realized it was only because of the stability of the intrinsic Mind that these ripples of birth and death took place, like the action of wind on a sheet of pure, serene, mirror-like water. I felt a sweet, swinging bliss like a big shot of heroin in the mainline vein; like a gulp of wine late in the afternoon and it makes you shudder; my feet tingled." (P. 173)
Kerouac captured the spirit of the Beats who would later become the hippies of the 60's (but without the Vietnam War) in both its glory and its squalor. The book is both beautiful and uplifting and desperate and depressing. Regardless of how one reacts to it, it is truly one of the great works of the expression of the American spirit in the post-WWII period.
Re-read and found both beauty and sadness in this work. The sadness stems from the sexism, racism, and homophobia expressed throughout the book. Sign of the times, I know, but it is still painful to see that these Beat visionaries - for all their open-mindedness towards other religions and sex and drugs - still expressed such backwards views and attitudes sometimes
As for the beauty, the story of Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty crossing the US again and again with a last trip down to Mexico City is epic.
"I pictured myself in a Denver bar that night, with all the gang, and in their eyes I would be strange and ragged and like the Prophet who has walked across the land to bring the dark Word, and the only Word I had was "Wow!" (P. 37)
I have driven from Florida to San Francisco by myself and back again when I was in college and felt that Kerouac captured the enthusiasm that the memory still evokes in me:
"I thought, and looked every, as I had looked everywhere in the little world below. And before me was the great raw bulge and bulk of my American continent" (P. 79)
The descriptions of bebop jazz are absolutely astounding throughout as they listen to Prez, Bird, Dizzy...
"The pianist was only pounding the keys with spread-eagled fingers, chords, or at intervals when the great tenorman was drawing breath for another blast--Chinese chords, shuddering the piano in every timber, chink, and wire, boing!" (P. 197)
The writing makes you feel the musics energy pulsating and driving - that is one of my favorite aspects of On the Road:
"Holy flowers floating in the air, were all these tired forms in the dawn of Jazz America." (P. 204)
Other moments are surreal and yet moments I have known many times:
"Just about that time a strange thing began to haunt me. It was this: I had forgotten something. There was a decision that I was about to make before Dean showed up, and now it was driven clear out of my mind but still hung on the tip of my mind's tongue." (P. 124)
Or the feeling of mystery:
"This was a manuscript of the night that we couldn't read." (P. 158) and those that do not share their trip on the road "they stand uncertainly underneath immense skies, and everything about them is drowned." (P. 167)
I perhaps just ignored it in my previous readings, but this time I was struck by the heroin references. Old Bill was off in the bathroom tying up and yet taking care of his kids (alarming!)
Perhaps the predominant mood and attitude of the book and Kerouac's view of the period is summarized on Sal's 3rd trip to San Francisco:
"I realized that I had died and been reborn numberless times but just didn't remember especially because the transitions from life to death and back to life are so ghostly easy, a magical action for naught, like falling asleep and waking up again a million times, the utter casualness and deep ignorance of it. I realized it was only because of the stability of the intrinsic Mind that these ripples of birth and death took place, like the action of wind on a sheet of pure, serene, mirror-like water. I felt a sweet, swinging bliss like a big shot of heroin in the mainline vein; like a gulp of wine late in the afternoon and it makes you shudder; my feet tingled." (P. 173)
Kerouac captured the spirit of the Beats who would later become the hippies of the 60's (but without the Vietnam War) in both its glory and its squalor. The book is both beautiful and uplifting and desperate and depressing. Regardless of how one reacts to it, it is truly one of the great works of the expression of the American spirit in the post-WWII period.
June 17, 2021
A rolling stone gathers no moss鈥�
Roads weave into a tapestry of life鈥� Roads interlace into a labyrinth鈥� There is no end to them鈥� One can鈥檛 reach a finish鈥� One can only stop鈥� Or to be stopped.
There is a time to sow wild oats and a time to reap what was sown鈥�
Every young generation has their own locus of romance and high hopes. And every new generation has its own roads to travel.
Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road.
Roads weave into a tapestry of life鈥� Roads interlace into a labyrinth鈥� There is no end to them鈥� One can鈥檛 reach a finish鈥� One can only stop鈥� Or to be stopped.
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�
There is a time to sow wild oats and a time to reap what was sown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.
Every young generation has their own locus of romance and high hopes. And every new generation has its own roads to travel.
November 18, 2020
Herein lies that gnarly root of our all-American Sense of Entitlement. Coupling this with "Huck Finn" as THE quintessential American Novel is One Enormous mistake: Twain at least entertains, at least follows through with his intention, with his American take on the Quixotean legend; Kerouac might just be the biggest literary quack of the 20th century! The book is awkward, structured not as ONE single trip, but composed of a few coast-to-coast coastings, all having to do with this overused motif.
I despise it. (Living in Denver, Kerouactown, makes me hate him more!) A tale of a closeted individual who really has nothing to say. He has glorified a ruffian (DEAN DEAN DEAN... DEAN!) whose selfishness sits well with him. What Sal does say, however, ever so dully, is just how Cool those around him are, how his only addition to this incomprehensible BEAT movement is as lame as those of a newspaper photographer: he sees and reports, jots idle musings down. What he fails to understand (the main guy is not even YOUNG... [he is old & stupid, desperate & pathetic]!!!) is how entirely false this sense of freedom can be: Can a sheep really outwit the shepherd? Here's a supreme example of the blind leading... I sternly refuse to follow such idiotic drivel. This is a book for followers written by a Conformist, for one can always be some selfproclaimed comfortable conformist of nonconformism.
Nothing sticks. Everything "On the Road" is transitory, & although this works fine in the everyday, in Literature its seen as nothing more than a burden: a plotless restlessness to achieve permanence without that crucial element: mainly, the artist's virtue of Talent.
I despise it. (Living in Denver, Kerouactown, makes me hate him more!) A tale of a closeted individual who really has nothing to say. He has glorified a ruffian (DEAN DEAN DEAN... DEAN!) whose selfishness sits well with him. What Sal does say, however, ever so dully, is just how Cool those around him are, how his only addition to this incomprehensible BEAT movement is as lame as those of a newspaper photographer: he sees and reports, jots idle musings down. What he fails to understand (the main guy is not even YOUNG... [he is old & stupid, desperate & pathetic]!!!) is how entirely false this sense of freedom can be: Can a sheep really outwit the shepherd? Here's a supreme example of the blind leading... I sternly refuse to follow such idiotic drivel. This is a book for followers written by a Conformist, for one can always be some selfproclaimed comfortable conformist of nonconformism.
Nothing sticks. Everything "On the Road" is transitory, & although this works fine in the everyday, in Literature its seen as nothing more than a burden: a plotless restlessness to achieve permanence without that crucial element: mainly, the artist's virtue of Talent.
December 5, 2021
Out-of-kilter writer Sal Paradise sort of worships Dean Moriarty, a traveller and an almost mystic-like man who epitomises the 'Beat Generation'; this is the story of their friendship mostly focussed on their journeys across America (east to west, and west to east), their and their fellow travellers' escapades; and the personal growth that they may or may not go through. A roman a clef work that is essentially a quasi-autobiographical take on the American Dream from a non-conventional perspective drenched in sexual comedy, almost widescreen-like travel writing, counter-culture, and evocative recollections of growing up (in America).
Neal Cassady(L) and Jack Kerouac(R)
A book that drips with lyrical writing that feels almost like a 300+ paged unstoppable juggernaut that once entered, enveloped me in what (in 2021?) feels like almost a constructed reality, despite it being drafted from the pages of Kerouac's diaries and notes, and based heavily upon his relationships and times with the likes of , and . It's a bit of a clich茅 to say, but I do feel that this book has such a prominent place in 20th century American culture that everyone should read it. 7 out of 12, because after awhile the stories and adventures as 'out there' as they were, did feel a bit repetitive.
2021 read
Neal Cassady(L) and Jack Kerouac(R)
A book that drips with lyrical writing that feels almost like a 300+ paged unstoppable juggernaut that once entered, enveloped me in what (in 2021?) feels like almost a constructed reality, despite it being drafted from the pages of Kerouac's diaries and notes, and based heavily upon his relationships and times with the likes of , and . It's a bit of a clich茅 to say, but I do feel that this book has such a prominent place in 20th century American culture that everyone should read it. 7 out of 12, because after awhile the stories and adventures as 'out there' as they were, did feel a bit repetitive.
2021 read
August 26, 2023
丕賱丌賳 賱爻鬲 賲丨鬲丕噩丕 賱丕賵乇丕賯 丕賱賳賯丕丿 賵鬲賳馗賷乇丕鬲 丕賱兀賰丕丿賷賲賷賷賳 賵廿噩乇丕亍丕鬲 丕賱鬲胤亘亘賯賷亘賳
鬲丨鬲丕噩 賮賯胤 賵乇賯丞 禺囟乇丕亍
鬲賱鬲賯胤賴丕 賷丿賰 賲賳 睾氐賳 賷賳鬲馗乇 賳馗乇鬲賰
賷賲賳丨賰 賯胤毓丞 賲賳 賳賮爻賴
賱丕賳賴 乇丌賰 賲賯胤賵毓丕 賲賳 卮噩乇丞 賲孬賱賴
賵賲孬賱 丕賱兀賯賱丕賲 丕賱乇氐丕氐 丕賱賰孬賷乇丞 丕賱鬲賷 鬲乇賰鬲 賮賷 賷丿賰 禺胤賵胤賴丕
鬲賯乇兀
毓賱賶 丕賱胤乇賷賯
賱噩丕賰 賰賷乇賵丕賰
賵鬲丿乇賰 賲毓賳賶 丕賱乇丨賱丞 賵丕賱丨亘 賵丕賱氐丿丕賯丞 賵丕賱賲賵爻賷賯賶
鬲乇賶 丕賱卮賵丕乇毓 丕賱鬲賷 乇爻賲鬲 禺胤賵丕鬲賰 毓賱賷賴丕 賲爻丕乇賰
丕賱卮賲爻 丕賱鬲賷 丕爻鬲禺乇噩鬲 賲賳賰 馗賱賰
丕賱亘丨乇 丕賱匕賷 兀賳胤亘毓鬲 毓賱賷賴 兀賲爻賷丕鬲 賯賲乇賰
兀賳賮丕爻 丕賱兀卮噩丕乇 賵丕賱賳賷賱 賵丕丨噩丕乇 丕賱亘賷賵鬲
賳爻丕卅賲 丕賱毓氐乇 賮賷 丕賱毓氐賵乇 賰賱賴丕
卮亘丕賰 丕賱氐丕賱丞 丕賱賲賮鬲賵丨 毓賱賶 丕賱丨丕乇丞
兀氐賵丕鬲 亘丕毓丞 鬲賲乇 丕賱賳禺賷賱 丕賱爻丕賲賯 賵丕賱胤賲丕胤賲 丕賱賲噩賳賵賳丞 賵丕賱賰賳丕賮丞 丕賱鬲賷 鬲鬲卮乇亘 卮乇亘丕鬲 兀氐丕亘毓 丕賱兀賲賴丕鬲
卮乇丕毓丞 丕賱亘丕亘 賵廿賷賯丕毓 禺胤賵丕鬲 乇囟丕 毓賱賶 丕賱爻賱賲
亘賳丕鬲 賲丿乇爻丞 丕賱鬲噩丕乇丞 賵兀氐丕亘毓賴賳 鬲囟乇亘 丨乇賵賮 丕賱丌賱丕鬲 丕賱賰丕鬲亘丞
賵乇賵丕賷丕鬲 賲丨賮賵馗
賵氐賵鬲 爻賲賷乇 賷賳丕丿賷賰 賱鬲賳囟賲 賱賮乇賷賯 兀乇囟 丕賱睾賳丕賲
賻賲卮賵丕乇 賲賷鬲 毓賯亘丞 賱賲卮丕賴丿丞 鬲丿乇賷亘丕鬲 丕賱夭賲丕賱賰
爻丕賳丿賵賷鬲卮丕鬲 賮賵賱 賲胤毓賲 丿賯丞
賲賰鬲亘丞 卮丕乇毓 丕賱毓賱賲賷賳
賲爻乇丨賷丕鬲 賯氐賵乇 丕賱孬賯丕賮丞 毓賱賶 賲爻乇丨 丕賱爻丕賲乇
賵毓乇囟 賮乇賯丞 乇囟丕 賮賷 丕賱亘丕賱賵賳
氐丨丕亘賰 亘兀氐賵丕鬲賴賲 丕賱賲賳睾賲丞 丕賱囟丕丨賰丞 賵賴賷 鬲賳胤賯 丕賱兀爻賲丕亍 丕賱賲爻鬲毓丕乇丞
丨丿賷賯丞 爻賮賳賰爻 賵丕賱卮胤乇賳噩 丕賱氐睾賷乇
兀丨丕丿賷孬 乇賷丕囟 丕賱氐丕賱丨賷賳 亘毓丿 氐賱丕丞 丕賱賮噩乇
氐丕噩丕鬲 丕賱賰毓賰 丕賱賲賰鬲賵亘 毓賱賷賴丕 兀爻賲丕亍 丕賱兀爻乇丞 賵丕賱噩賷乇丕賳
氐賵鬲 毓亘丿 丕賱丨賱賷賲 賷賯賵賱 賲禺丕胤亘丕 丕賱賱賷賱 賮賷 賲賵毓賵丿
賷丕賱賱賷 卮賮鬲 賮賷 毓賳賷丕 丕賱丿賲賵毓 賵丕賳丕 丿丕賷賲丕 乇丕噩毓 賵丨賷丿
鬲乇賶 賱丨馗丕鬲 鬲賰賵賷賳賰 亘賷賳 丕賱爻胤賵乇
兀噩賲賱 丕賱乇賵丕賷丕鬲 賴賷 丕賱鬲賷 賳賯乇兀 賮賷賴丕 賯氐鬲賳丕 亘丕賱鬲賵丕夭賷 賲毓 賲鬲禺賷賱 丕賱賮賳
鬲胤亘賷賯丕鬲 丕賱爻乇丿 乇丕卅毓丞
賵兀賰孬乇 毓亘賯乇賷丞 賲賳 丌賱丕鬲 丕賱夭賲賳 賮賷 丕賱禺賷丕賱 丕賱毓賱賲賷
鬲賳賯賱賰 賮賷 丕賱兀夭賲賳丞 賵丕賱兀賻賲賰賳丞
鬲爻鬲噩賲毓 賳賮爻賰 丕賱賲鬲賳丕孬乇丞
鬲亘鬲爻賲 賱賰 丕丨亘丞 賰丕賳鬲 賴賳丕 賵爻鬲馗賱
鬲丨賮馗 賱賰 氐丿丕賯丕鬲 氐丕賮賷丞
鬲鬲禺匕 賲賳 賳爻賷噩賴丕 氐賵乇丕 賱丕毓賲丕賯 卮禺氐賷丕鬲 賱賲 鬲乇賴丕 亘毓丿
鬲囟賷賮 賱乇氐賷丿 卮丨賳賰 丕賱廿賳爻丕賳賷
噩丕賰 賰賷乇賵丕賰 賷丨賰賷
毓賱賶 丕賱胤乇賷賯
賵丕賳鬲 鬲丿禺賱 丿賴丕賱賷夭 鬲賮丕氐賷賱 丨賵丕丿賷鬲 鬲丕乇賷禺賰
亘乇賷賯 噩賵丕賴乇 丕賱賲睾丕乇丞 賷賵賯馗 賳噩賵賲 乇丨賱鬲賰
毓賲賯 丕賱孬賵丕賳賷
賲賵爻賷賯賶 丕賱亘賱賵夭 賵廿賷賯丕毓 丕賱丨賷丕丞 丕賱廿賮乇賷賯賷丞 賷賰鬲亘 賳賵鬲丞 丕賱卮噩賳 賮賷 氐禺亘 丕賱賯丕乇丞 丕賱噩丿賷丿丞
爻賱賷賲 噩丕賷賱丕乇丿 賷睾賳賷 賰賲丕 賷鬲賳賮爻 丕賱賲禺鬲賳賯賷賳 賲賳 丿賲丕乇 丕賱丨乇賵亘 賮賷 丕爻鬲乇丕丨丞 爻賱丕賲 賷鬲賲賳賵賳 丕賳 賷毓賲 丕賱毓丕賱賲
丕賱匕賰乇賷丕鬲 丕賱鬲賷 鬲乇賮囟 丕賱丕賳丿孬丕乇 賮賷 氐賳丕丿賷賯 丕賱賲丿賳
賰賱 賵丕丨丿 賱賴 胤乇賷賯賴
賱賰賳 胤乇賮賳丕 鬲賱鬲賯賷
鬲賲丿 兀賷丕丿賷賴兀 亘丕賱爻賱丕賲
鬲爻鬲囟賷賮 丕賱胤乇賯 亘毓囟賴丕 亘毓囟丕
鬲爻賲丨 賱賱丕乇囟 丕賱睾乇賷亘丞 亘丕賱賲乇賵乇
丕賱胤乇賯 卮禺氐賷丕鬲 賱賴丕 丨賰丕賷丕鬲
賲孬賱 賮囟賱 丕賱賱賴 毓孬賲丕賳
乇賵丕賷丞 毓賱賶 丕賱胤乇賷賯 賱噩丕賰 賰賷乇賵丕賰
鬲賮鬲丨 亘丕亘丕 亘丕賱胤賵賱 賵丕賱毓乇囟
賱賲丨亘丞 丕賱賳丕爻 賵丕賱兀賲丕賰賳 賵丕賱兀卮賷丕亍 丕賱氐睾賷乇丞 賵丕賱賵賯鬲 丕賱噩賲賷賱
賵賮賷賴丕 乇丨賱丞 丕賱亘丨孬 毓賳 丕賱兀亘
賱賳氐賱 賯氐鬲賳丕 亘丕賱鬲丕乇賷禺
爻賳賵丕鬲 毓丕賱賲賳丕 鬲鬲賰孬賮 賮賷 丕賱爻乇丿
丿賵乇丕賳 丕賱賳噩賵賲 賵丕賱賰賵丕賰亘 賮賷 丕賱賲噩乇丞
賵賲丕賰賷賳丞 丕賱胤亘丕毓丞 鬲乇氐 丕賱兀丨丿丕孬 賮賷 卮丕乇毓 丕賱氐賮丨丕鬲
賵賴賵丕賲卮 亘丕賱賲卮丕毓乇 賱賲 賷乇賴丕 兀丨丿
丨乇賵賮 鬲鬲賮鬲丨 賮賷 乇賷丕囟 丕賱丨賰丕賷丕鬲
爻丕毓丕鬲 孬賵丕賳賷賴丕 爻賳賵丕鬲 噩賲賷賱丞
廿賳賴丕 賮賷夭賷丕亍 丕賱賮賳
兀賮囟賷丞 賲鬲卮毓亘丞 賲賳 丕賱毓賲乇
賱賯賱賵亘 兀禺匕鬲賴丕 胤乇賯 亘毓賷丿丞
賵丕賱乇丕賵賷 丨賱賲
賲毓賱賯 亘爻賴乇 丕賱兀丨亘丞
賷賯氐 丌孬丕乇賴賲
賮賷 乇賵丕賷丞 胤乇賷賯
賮賷 賵乇賯丞 賳賯丿 亘賮氐賱 丕賱爻乇丿 鬲賰鬲亘 乇賵丕賷丞 丕賱胤乇賷賯 賳賮爻賴丕 亘賵氐賮賴丕 賳賵毓 兀丿亘賷貙 鬲乇賶 丕賱毓丕賱賲 賲賳 賲賳馗賵乇 丕賱丨乇賰丞貙 鬲賯賳賷丞 毓丕賰爻丞 賱賱孬賯丕賮丞 丕賱兀賲乇賷賰賷丞 丕賱賲賳胤賱賯丞 亘毓丿 丕賱丨乇亘 丕賱毓丕賱賲賷丞 丕賱孬丕賳賷丞 賮賷 胤乇賯 丕賱丨賷丕丞
鬲丨鬲丕噩 賮賯胤 賵乇賯丞 禺囟乇丕亍
鬲賱鬲賯胤賴丕 賷丿賰 賲賳 睾氐賳 賷賳鬲馗乇 賳馗乇鬲賰
賷賲賳丨賰 賯胤毓丞 賲賳 賳賮爻賴
賱丕賳賴 乇丌賰 賲賯胤賵毓丕 賲賳 卮噩乇丞 賲孬賱賴
賵賲孬賱 丕賱兀賯賱丕賲 丕賱乇氐丕氐 丕賱賰孬賷乇丞 丕賱鬲賷 鬲乇賰鬲 賮賷 賷丿賰 禺胤賵胤賴丕
鬲賯乇兀
毓賱賶 丕賱胤乇賷賯
賱噩丕賰 賰賷乇賵丕賰
賵鬲丿乇賰 賲毓賳賶 丕賱乇丨賱丞 賵丕賱丨亘 賵丕賱氐丿丕賯丞 賵丕賱賲賵爻賷賯賶
鬲乇賶 丕賱卮賵丕乇毓 丕賱鬲賷 乇爻賲鬲 禺胤賵丕鬲賰 毓賱賷賴丕 賲爻丕乇賰
丕賱卮賲爻 丕賱鬲賷 丕爻鬲禺乇噩鬲 賲賳賰 馗賱賰
丕賱亘丨乇 丕賱匕賷 兀賳胤亘毓鬲 毓賱賷賴 兀賲爻賷丕鬲 賯賲乇賰
兀賳賮丕爻 丕賱兀卮噩丕乇 賵丕賱賳賷賱 賵丕丨噩丕乇 丕賱亘賷賵鬲
賳爻丕卅賲 丕賱毓氐乇 賮賷 丕賱毓氐賵乇 賰賱賴丕
卮亘丕賰 丕賱氐丕賱丞 丕賱賲賮鬲賵丨 毓賱賶 丕賱丨丕乇丞
兀氐賵丕鬲 亘丕毓丞 鬲賲乇 丕賱賳禺賷賱 丕賱爻丕賲賯 賵丕賱胤賲丕胤賲 丕賱賲噩賳賵賳丞 賵丕賱賰賳丕賮丞 丕賱鬲賷 鬲鬲卮乇亘 卮乇亘丕鬲 兀氐丕亘毓 丕賱兀賲賴丕鬲
卮乇丕毓丞 丕賱亘丕亘 賵廿賷賯丕毓 禺胤賵丕鬲 乇囟丕 毓賱賶 丕賱爻賱賲
亘賳丕鬲 賲丿乇爻丞 丕賱鬲噩丕乇丞 賵兀氐丕亘毓賴賳 鬲囟乇亘 丨乇賵賮 丕賱丌賱丕鬲 丕賱賰丕鬲亘丞
賵乇賵丕賷丕鬲 賲丨賮賵馗
賵氐賵鬲 爻賲賷乇 賷賳丕丿賷賰 賱鬲賳囟賲 賱賮乇賷賯 兀乇囟 丕賱睾賳丕賲
賻賲卮賵丕乇 賲賷鬲 毓賯亘丞 賱賲卮丕賴丿丞 鬲丿乇賷亘丕鬲 丕賱夭賲丕賱賰
爻丕賳丿賵賷鬲卮丕鬲 賮賵賱 賲胤毓賲 丿賯丞
賲賰鬲亘丞 卮丕乇毓 丕賱毓賱賲賷賳
賲爻乇丨賷丕鬲 賯氐賵乇 丕賱孬賯丕賮丞 毓賱賶 賲爻乇丨 丕賱爻丕賲乇
賵毓乇囟 賮乇賯丞 乇囟丕 賮賷 丕賱亘丕賱賵賳
氐丨丕亘賰 亘兀氐賵丕鬲賴賲 丕賱賲賳睾賲丞 丕賱囟丕丨賰丞 賵賴賷 鬲賳胤賯 丕賱兀爻賲丕亍 丕賱賲爻鬲毓丕乇丞
丨丿賷賯丞 爻賮賳賰爻 賵丕賱卮胤乇賳噩 丕賱氐睾賷乇
兀丨丕丿賷孬 乇賷丕囟 丕賱氐丕賱丨賷賳 亘毓丿 氐賱丕丞 丕賱賮噩乇
氐丕噩丕鬲 丕賱賰毓賰 丕賱賲賰鬲賵亘 毓賱賷賴丕 兀爻賲丕亍 丕賱兀爻乇丞 賵丕賱噩賷乇丕賳
氐賵鬲 毓亘丿 丕賱丨賱賷賲 賷賯賵賱 賲禺丕胤亘丕 丕賱賱賷賱 賮賷 賲賵毓賵丿
賷丕賱賱賷 卮賮鬲 賮賷 毓賳賷丕 丕賱丿賲賵毓 賵丕賳丕 丿丕賷賲丕 乇丕噩毓 賵丨賷丿
鬲乇賶 賱丨馗丕鬲 鬲賰賵賷賳賰 亘賷賳 丕賱爻胤賵乇
兀噩賲賱 丕賱乇賵丕賷丕鬲 賴賷 丕賱鬲賷 賳賯乇兀 賮賷賴丕 賯氐鬲賳丕 亘丕賱鬲賵丕夭賷 賲毓 賲鬲禺賷賱 丕賱賮賳
鬲胤亘賷賯丕鬲 丕賱爻乇丿 乇丕卅毓丞
賵兀賰孬乇 毓亘賯乇賷丞 賲賳 丌賱丕鬲 丕賱夭賲賳 賮賷 丕賱禺賷丕賱 丕賱毓賱賲賷
鬲賳賯賱賰 賮賷 丕賱兀夭賲賳丞 賵丕賱兀賻賲賰賳丞
鬲爻鬲噩賲毓 賳賮爻賰 丕賱賲鬲賳丕孬乇丞
鬲亘鬲爻賲 賱賰 丕丨亘丞 賰丕賳鬲 賴賳丕 賵爻鬲馗賱
鬲丨賮馗 賱賰 氐丿丕賯丕鬲 氐丕賮賷丞
鬲鬲禺匕 賲賳 賳爻賷噩賴丕 氐賵乇丕 賱丕毓賲丕賯 卮禺氐賷丕鬲 賱賲 鬲乇賴丕 亘毓丿
鬲囟賷賮 賱乇氐賷丿 卮丨賳賰 丕賱廿賳爻丕賳賷
噩丕賰 賰賷乇賵丕賰 賷丨賰賷
毓賱賶 丕賱胤乇賷賯
賵丕賳鬲 鬲丿禺賱 丿賴丕賱賷夭 鬲賮丕氐賷賱 丨賵丕丿賷鬲 鬲丕乇賷禺賰
亘乇賷賯 噩賵丕賴乇 丕賱賲睾丕乇丞 賷賵賯馗 賳噩賵賲 乇丨賱鬲賰
毓賲賯 丕賱孬賵丕賳賷
賲賵爻賷賯賶 丕賱亘賱賵夭 賵廿賷賯丕毓 丕賱丨賷丕丞 丕賱廿賮乇賷賯賷丞 賷賰鬲亘 賳賵鬲丞 丕賱卮噩賳 賮賷 氐禺亘 丕賱賯丕乇丞 丕賱噩丿賷丿丞
爻賱賷賲 噩丕賷賱丕乇丿 賷睾賳賷 賰賲丕 賷鬲賳賮爻 丕賱賲禺鬲賳賯賷賳 賲賳 丿賲丕乇 丕賱丨乇賵亘 賮賷 丕爻鬲乇丕丨丞 爻賱丕賲 賷鬲賲賳賵賳 丕賳 賷毓賲 丕賱毓丕賱賲
丕賱匕賰乇賷丕鬲 丕賱鬲賷 鬲乇賮囟 丕賱丕賳丿孬丕乇 賮賷 氐賳丕丿賷賯 丕賱賲丿賳
賰賱 賵丕丨丿 賱賴 胤乇賷賯賴
賱賰賳 胤乇賮賳丕 鬲賱鬲賯賷
鬲賲丿 兀賷丕丿賷賴兀 亘丕賱爻賱丕賲
鬲爻鬲囟賷賮 丕賱胤乇賯 亘毓囟賴丕 亘毓囟丕
鬲爻賲丨 賱賱丕乇囟 丕賱睾乇賷亘丞 亘丕賱賲乇賵乇
丕賱胤乇賯 卮禺氐賷丕鬲 賱賴丕 丨賰丕賷丕鬲
賲孬賱 賮囟賱 丕賱賱賴 毓孬賲丕賳
乇賵丕賷丞 毓賱賶 丕賱胤乇賷賯 賱噩丕賰 賰賷乇賵丕賰
鬲賮鬲丨 亘丕亘丕 亘丕賱胤賵賱 賵丕賱毓乇囟
賱賲丨亘丞 丕賱賳丕爻 賵丕賱兀賲丕賰賳 賵丕賱兀卮賷丕亍 丕賱氐睾賷乇丞 賵丕賱賵賯鬲 丕賱噩賲賷賱
賵賮賷賴丕 乇丨賱丞 丕賱亘丨孬 毓賳 丕賱兀亘
賱賳氐賱 賯氐鬲賳丕 亘丕賱鬲丕乇賷禺
爻賳賵丕鬲 毓丕賱賲賳丕 鬲鬲賰孬賮 賮賷 丕賱爻乇丿
丿賵乇丕賳 丕賱賳噩賵賲 賵丕賱賰賵丕賰亘 賮賷 丕賱賲噩乇丞
賵賲丕賰賷賳丞 丕賱胤亘丕毓丞 鬲乇氐 丕賱兀丨丿丕孬 賮賷 卮丕乇毓 丕賱氐賮丨丕鬲
賵賴賵丕賲卮 亘丕賱賲卮丕毓乇 賱賲 賷乇賴丕 兀丨丿
丨乇賵賮 鬲鬲賮鬲丨 賮賷 乇賷丕囟 丕賱丨賰丕賷丕鬲
爻丕毓丕鬲 孬賵丕賳賷賴丕 爻賳賵丕鬲 噩賲賷賱丞
廿賳賴丕 賮賷夭賷丕亍 丕賱賮賳
兀賮囟賷丞 賲鬲卮毓亘丞 賲賳 丕賱毓賲乇
賱賯賱賵亘 兀禺匕鬲賴丕 胤乇賯 亘毓賷丿丞
賵丕賱乇丕賵賷 丨賱賲
賲毓賱賯 亘爻賴乇 丕賱兀丨亘丞
賷賯氐 丌孬丕乇賴賲
賮賷 乇賵丕賷丞 胤乇賷賯
賮賷 賵乇賯丞 賳賯丿 亘賮氐賱 丕賱爻乇丿 鬲賰鬲亘 乇賵丕賷丞 丕賱胤乇賷賯 賳賮爻賴丕 亘賵氐賮賴丕 賳賵毓 兀丿亘賷貙 鬲乇賶 丕賱毓丕賱賲 賲賳 賲賳馗賵乇 丕賱丨乇賰丞貙 鬲賯賳賷丞 毓丕賰爻丞 賱賱孬賯丕賮丞 丕賱兀賲乇賷賰賷丞 丕賱賲賳胤賱賯丞 亘毓丿 丕賱丨乇亘 丕賱毓丕賱賲賷丞 丕賱孬丕賳賷丞 賮賷 胤乇賯 丕賱丨賷丕丞
August 8, 2024
HIGHWAY 66 REVISITED
Jack Kerouac=John Heard, Neal Cassady=Nick Nolte, Carolyn Cassady=Sissy Spacek. Il film 猫 del 1980, diretto da John Byrum e si chiama 鈥淗eart Beat鈥�.
Letto da adolescente conteneva la voglia di movimento e cambiamento che era in me. La rabbia e la ribellione. La giovent霉 e l鈥檃more.
Parlava la mia lingua, parlava a me direttamente. Era quello che avrei voluto sentir dire ai miei amici, e quello che avrei voluto dire ai miei amici.
Fu uno shock. Un trauma molto bello e piacevole.
-Dobbiamo andare e non fermarci finch茅 non siamo arrivati.
-Dove andiamo?
-Non lo so, ma dobbiamo andare.
Fu vera gloria?
Non lo so. Allora, in quegli anni, subito dopo questo ne feci seguire un altro paio di Kerouac 鈥� ricordo Big Sur perch茅 ero affascinato dal nome e dal luogo. Mai ritrovata la stessa voce, la stessa musica.
Negli anni a seguire ho incontrato tante voci che di Kerouac si facevano beffe: un personaggio, pi霉 che uno scrittore, dicevano.
Non lo so. Mi tengo l鈥檃more per questo libro e per ci貌 che per me ha rappresentato: il battito del cuore. Heart Beat.
鈥漁n the Road鈥� di Walter Salles, 2012. Dove Sal Paradise/Jack Kerouac 猫 Sam Riley, Dean Moriarty/Neal Cassady 猫 Garrett Hedlund, e Kristen Stewart interpreta Marylou.
Jack Kerouac=John Heard, Neal Cassady=Nick Nolte, Carolyn Cassady=Sissy Spacek. Il film 猫 del 1980, diretto da John Byrum e si chiama 鈥淗eart Beat鈥�.
Letto da adolescente conteneva la voglia di movimento e cambiamento che era in me. La rabbia e la ribellione. La giovent霉 e l鈥檃more.
Parlava la mia lingua, parlava a me direttamente. Era quello che avrei voluto sentir dire ai miei amici, e quello che avrei voluto dire ai miei amici.
Fu uno shock. Un trauma molto bello e piacevole.
-Dobbiamo andare e non fermarci finch茅 non siamo arrivati.
-Dove andiamo?
-Non lo so, ma dobbiamo andare.
Fu vera gloria?
Non lo so. Allora, in quegli anni, subito dopo questo ne feci seguire un altro paio di Kerouac 鈥� ricordo Big Sur perch茅 ero affascinato dal nome e dal luogo. Mai ritrovata la stessa voce, la stessa musica.
Negli anni a seguire ho incontrato tante voci che di Kerouac si facevano beffe: un personaggio, pi霉 che uno scrittore, dicevano.
Non lo so. Mi tengo l鈥檃more per questo libro e per ci貌 che per me ha rappresentato: il battito del cuore. Heart Beat.
鈥漁n the Road鈥� di Walter Salles, 2012. Dove Sal Paradise/Jack Kerouac 猫 Sam Riley, Dean Moriarty/Neal Cassady 猫 Garrett Hedlund, e Kristen Stewart interpreta Marylou.
July 16, 2011
The other day I was talking to someone and he said, 鈥淲ell, I鈥檓 no pie expert . . . Wait! No! I am a pie expert. I am an expert at pie!鈥�
Another person asked, 鈥淗ow did you become a pie expert?鈥�
鈥淥ne time I ate only pie for an entire week. I was driving across the country with my buddies, and we decided to eat only pie.鈥�
鈥淟ike Jack Kerouac in On the Road!鈥� I said.
鈥淵es! Exactly! That鈥檚 exactly what we were doing. We were reading On the Road, and we decided he was so smart when he realized pie is the best solution when you鈥檙e traveling and have no money.鈥�
鈥淗e 鈥榢new it was nutritious, and of course delicious.鈥欌€�
鈥淵es! It has all of the food groups - especially if you have it with ice cream." He paused. "Except pie isn鈥檛 as filling as you would think it would be, so we had to drink a lot of beer to make up for that. And we ate a lot of multi-vitamins because we felt terrible. We would stop and camp out by the road, eating pie and drinking beer with multi-vitamins.
鈥淲e got to my girlfriend鈥檚 house, and we looked like shit. We hadn鈥檛 shaved and we had the pie sweats. But, it made me an expert at pie.鈥�
鈥渕mmm, pie.鈥�
Other than his advice about pie, I find Jack Kerouac to be one of those useless, narcissistic, cult-leader types. He鈥檚 pretty hot, though, and he does have correct opinions about pie.
Another person asked, 鈥淗ow did you become a pie expert?鈥�
鈥淥ne time I ate only pie for an entire week. I was driving across the country with my buddies, and we decided to eat only pie.鈥�
鈥淟ike Jack Kerouac in On the Road!鈥� I said.
鈥淵es! Exactly! That鈥檚 exactly what we were doing. We were reading On the Road, and we decided he was so smart when he realized pie is the best solution when you鈥檙e traveling and have no money.鈥�
鈥淗e 鈥榢new it was nutritious, and of course delicious.鈥欌€�
鈥淵es! It has all of the food groups - especially if you have it with ice cream." He paused. "Except pie isn鈥檛 as filling as you would think it would be, so we had to drink a lot of beer to make up for that. And we ate a lot of multi-vitamins because we felt terrible. We would stop and camp out by the road, eating pie and drinking beer with multi-vitamins.
鈥淲e got to my girlfriend鈥檚 house, and we looked like shit. We hadn鈥檛 shaved and we had the pie sweats. But, it made me an expert at pie.鈥�
鈥渕mmm, pie.鈥�
Other than his advice about pie, I find Jack Kerouac to be one of those useless, narcissistic, cult-leader types. He鈥檚 pretty hot, though, and he does have correct opinions about pie.
March 21, 2022
EDIT: 26/03/2018
I just learnt that Sam and Dean from Supernatural were named after Sal and Dean, and I don't know what to believe in anymore.
--
ORIGINAL REVIEW:
ALTERNATE TITLE: White People Problems
ALTERNATE ALTERNATE TITLE: How Many Girls is Too Many Girls?
ALTERNATE ALTERNATE ALTERNATE TITLE: Do I Sound Smart Yet?
Why is this a beloved book? I read it for the second time because I thought I was too young to have understood it when I read it the first time. It turns out the book is still not good, and Jack Kerouac is still an asshole. For the past three days, I've been opening this edit box and closing it. Because honestly, I couldn't bear the thought of going through my notes, my notes filled with Kerouac's insipid, yet simultaneously aggravating thoughts. I mean, I did read this twice! Two whole times. That's a lot of hours I'll never get back. Nevertheless, I stopped procrastinating, and decided that like ripping a band aid, it's best I get done with this as quickly as possible. Because after this, I'm never touching this book again. Fuck this book.
There are books that I dislike because of the language. There are books that I dislike because they're too cheesy. There's books that I think are too good or too bad to be true and so I dislike them too. Then there are books like this that I dislike, because seriously, what the fuck was the writer thinking? It reads like nothing more than an ode to his superior intelligence, his friends' superior intelligence, and their collective "intellectual and sexual prowess". Fuck this book.
I really don't like stereotypes. I try consciously to not stereotype. But this book could only and only have been written by a White, heterosexual male. Actually, make that American, White, heterosexual male. I mean, anyone who says that the millennial generation is self-obsessed should be asked to read this book. Never have I read a book so complacent, so self-centered. Honestly, no one thinks Sal (Jack) and his friends are the pinnacle of intellectual evolution more than Sal and his friends. What makes it worse is Sal's constant undermining of his own intelligence, which very plainly looks like he's trying to talk about how smart he is without sounding like an idiot. Emphasis on "trying", because by god, does he fail miserably at it. Fuck this book.
It could've been funny, maybe even a little charming. But Kerouac all spends his time trying to build up this aura of intellect, only for it collapse on itself inelegantly. How anyone could idolise Dean Moriarty is beyond me. He is nothing more than a self-serving egomaniac (and nymphomaniac) who would probably pimp out his mother for a bottle of whiskey and a pack of Parliaments. The problem is, I've actually met people who're as bad, and the end result is nowhere as literarily perfect as it is in this book. Fuck this book.
Don't even get me started on the portrayal of the female characters in this book. Because there is no "portrayal", really. Despite his claims of having been with more women than I can count on my fingers, Sal's understanding of women is painfully pedestrian. On reading the description of the women in this book, I can only conclude that these characters were written by an alien ghostwriter who had a very vague idea of what women actually were. They are reduced to caricatures of what someone else must have described as "women". They're either whores or prudes. Easy or difficult. Hot or fat. In Sal, and in fact, his friends' eyes, women exist to satisfy their sexual needs. Worse still, women are okay with being reduced to mere sexual objects. Never have I seen a man so tone-deaf about what women are since Henry VIII created a new religion to satisfy his sexual appetite. Fuck this book.
I say in many books that it is me, and not the book. Here, it is the book. The combination of smug intellectual superiority, and utter and total disregard for anyone who isn't white, heterosexual, or male makes this book truly one of the worst I've read. There is the unnecessary glorification of criminal acts, of ruffians, of drugs, of addiction, of sex; gratuitous idolisation of people one really shouldn't be idolsing. Kerouac perhaps pulled off perhaps the world's greatest literary scam in getting this book published. It isn't great in any way. I don't even think it is truly representative of Beat Culture. Kerouac should've just stuck to naming the Beat Generation and left the writing to his friends. That is truly a better contribution to literature than this awful book. Considering this book a Great American Novel would be trivialising the contribution of America to the world of literature. FUCK. THIS. BOOK.
I just learnt that Sam and Dean from Supernatural were named after Sal and Dean, and I don't know what to believe in anymore.
--
ORIGINAL REVIEW:
ALTERNATE TITLE: White People Problems
ALTERNATE ALTERNATE TITLE: How Many Girls is Too Many Girls?
ALTERNATE ALTERNATE ALTERNATE TITLE: Do I Sound Smart Yet?
Why is this a beloved book? I read it for the second time because I thought I was too young to have understood it when I read it the first time. It turns out the book is still not good, and Jack Kerouac is still an asshole. For the past three days, I've been opening this edit box and closing it. Because honestly, I couldn't bear the thought of going through my notes, my notes filled with Kerouac's insipid, yet simultaneously aggravating thoughts. I mean, I did read this twice! Two whole times. That's a lot of hours I'll never get back. Nevertheless, I stopped procrastinating, and decided that like ripping a band aid, it's best I get done with this as quickly as possible. Because after this, I'm never touching this book again. Fuck this book.
There are books that I dislike because of the language. There are books that I dislike because they're too cheesy. There's books that I think are too good or too bad to be true and so I dislike them too. Then there are books like this that I dislike, because seriously, what the fuck was the writer thinking? It reads like nothing more than an ode to his superior intelligence, his friends' superior intelligence, and their collective "intellectual and sexual prowess". Fuck this book.
I really don't like stereotypes. I try consciously to not stereotype. But this book could only and only have been written by a White, heterosexual male. Actually, make that American, White, heterosexual male. I mean, anyone who says that the millennial generation is self-obsessed should be asked to read this book. Never have I read a book so complacent, so self-centered. Honestly, no one thinks Sal (Jack) and his friends are the pinnacle of intellectual evolution more than Sal and his friends. What makes it worse is Sal's constant undermining of his own intelligence, which very plainly looks like he's trying to talk about how smart he is without sounding like an idiot. Emphasis on "trying", because by god, does he fail miserably at it. Fuck this book.
It could've been funny, maybe even a little charming. But Kerouac all spends his time trying to build up this aura of intellect, only for it collapse on itself inelegantly. How anyone could idolise Dean Moriarty is beyond me. He is nothing more than a self-serving egomaniac (and nymphomaniac) who would probably pimp out his mother for a bottle of whiskey and a pack of Parliaments. The problem is, I've actually met people who're as bad, and the end result is nowhere as literarily perfect as it is in this book. Fuck this book.
Don't even get me started on the portrayal of the female characters in this book. Because there is no "portrayal", really. Despite his claims of having been with more women than I can count on my fingers, Sal's understanding of women is painfully pedestrian. On reading the description of the women in this book, I can only conclude that these characters were written by an alien ghostwriter who had a very vague idea of what women actually were. They are reduced to caricatures of what someone else must have described as "women". They're either whores or prudes. Easy or difficult. Hot or fat. In Sal, and in fact, his friends' eyes, women exist to satisfy their sexual needs. Worse still, women are okay with being reduced to mere sexual objects. Never have I seen a man so tone-deaf about what women are since Henry VIII created a new religion to satisfy his sexual appetite. Fuck this book.
I say in many books that it is me, and not the book. Here, it is the book. The combination of smug intellectual superiority, and utter and total disregard for anyone who isn't white, heterosexual, or male makes this book truly one of the worst I've read. There is the unnecessary glorification of criminal acts, of ruffians, of drugs, of addiction, of sex; gratuitous idolisation of people one really shouldn't be idolsing. Kerouac perhaps pulled off perhaps the world's greatest literary scam in getting this book published. It isn't great in any way. I don't even think it is truly representative of Beat Culture. Kerouac should've just stuck to naming the Beat Generation and left the writing to his friends. That is truly a better contribution to literature than this awful book. Considering this book a Great American Novel would be trivialising the contribution of America to the world of literature. FUCK. THIS. BOOK.
August 5, 2017
in september, this book will turn sixty years old! while i do not care for it personally, and the celebration of a couple of self-satisfied pseudo-intellectual doofuses and their buffet-style spirituality traveling across the country, leaving a number of pregnancies in their wake and exploiting underage mexican prostitutes makes me wonder why this book endures, endure it does. so i have made a road trip booklist with less ickiness and more cannibalism. enjoy!
February 7, 2017
鈥淣othing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road.鈥�
I am not really into classics.
I always preferred the fantasy genre, due to an innate escapism, a vivid imagination and a constant longing for magic. But as you may tell, I didn't cast spells while reading . I didn't climb the dark wizard's tower, nor heard prophecies whispered in the dark. I set my sword aside for a while, and hushed my heart's desire to experience passionate romances. After a dear friend's raving about , I succumbed to peer pressure. And I am rather glad that I did.
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�
If you must know one thing about , is that it doesn't stand out because of its mind-blowing plot. In fact, it is not a plot-driven novel at all. You follow Jack Kerouac's travels throughout America and Mexico, and that's it. What captivates you is his writing style, a writing style the likes of which I had never encountered. You'll notice a plethora of contradictions: it can be lyrical and so beautiful it makes you hold your breath, and want to absorb every detail, every smell and sound and feeling, and then you'll come across so many traces of oral speech, that you're certain you're listening to a conversation full of curse words and half-finished sentences right next to you; you can sense Kerouac's admiration towards his country and at the same time his bitterness and disappointment; you can feel his loneliness to your marrow, and then the camaraderie that keeps him going. You will find your lips curling into a smile, but then a heaviness will settle on your chest, a near sadness because you see those people searching for something, anything, and when they find it, it slips from their fingers. You contemplate your own morality and mortality, question the meaning of ideals when life is too short and full of misery. When the road lies ahead full of possibilities, and you're lost and bound and torn.
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�
When you read , at first you're a little judgmental towards the characters. But as the story progresses, you are envious of their carelessness, their crazy and wild abandon, their desire to live even when they don't know what they live for. You don't read it for the plot, but you read it for its moments, its vigorous, bright and mesmerising moments, mornings eating apple-pie with ice-cream, dirty streets in an alcohol frenzy, a young man on the top of a mountain with the world at his feet, a mexican brothel shaking by the sounds of mambo, cold nights drinking scotch under a crystal clear sky. In the end, it all comes to one thing: we are the sum of the people we meet. Some of them are destined to change us, draw us to them like moths to the flame. Other pass by like fleeting stars, or constitute a constant and reassuring presence. But all of them, without exception, are pieces of the puzzle of our existence.
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�
And this is .
Read
September 15, 2024I read this backwards, which wasn't as bad a time as you might expect, sort of like a dated Choose-Your-Own-Adventure novelization of a fever dream.
I did BEGIN reading it forwards, and swapped at around page 50, when I read a review that said it had a terrific last line. What to say that hasn't already been said? It's a classic; I know more than one person with a Kerouac tattoo; I wanted to be able to spell his last name correctly every time; I wanted to have my eyes on it.
I am not getting a Kerouac tattoo, but I feel I understand everyone in my life with one better now.
I did BEGIN reading it forwards, and swapped at around page 50, when I read a review that said it had a terrific last line. What to say that hasn't already been said? It's a classic; I know more than one person with a Kerouac tattoo; I wanted to be able to spell his last name correctly every time; I wanted to have my eyes on it.
I am not getting a Kerouac tattoo, but I feel I understand everyone in my life with one better now.
May 27, 2024
This book takes me back to that once in a lifetime summer when you sit with your friends and say "we should just hit the road and let it take us anywhere." Over the years you look back and wonder - can you say that you took the road... "I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference." But that difference is already faded; the road is covered over with the autumnal leafs of memory - and it is lost. Jack took that road; and I traveled with him in the spirit of that summer long ago.
May 4, 2021
HIGHWAY 66 REVISITED
Jack Kerouac=John Heard, Neal Cassady=Nick Nolte, Carolyn Cassady=Sissy Spacek. Il film 猫 del 1980, diretto da John Byrum e si chiama 鈥淗eart Beat鈥�.
Letto da adolescente conteneva la voglia di movimento e cambiamento che era in me. La rabbia e la ribellione. La giovent霉 e l鈥檃more.
Parlava la mia lingua, parlava a me direttamente. Era quello che avrei voluto sentir dire ai miei amici, e quello che avrei voluto dire ai miei amici.
Fu uno shock. Un trauma molto bello e piacevole.
-Dobbiamo andare e non fermarci finch茅 non siamo arrivati.
-Dove andiamo?
-Non lo so, ma dobbiamo andare.
Fu vera gloria?
Non lo so. Allora, in quegli anni, subito dopo questo ne feci seguire un altro paio di Kerouac 鈥� ricordo Big Sur perch茅 ero affascinato dal nome e dal luogo. Mai ritrovata la stessa voce, la stessa musica.
Negli anni a seguire ho incontrato tante voci che di Kerouac si facevano beffe: un personaggio, pi霉 che uno scrittore, dicevano.
Non lo so. Mi tengo l鈥檃more per questo libro e per ci貌 che per me ha rappresentato: il battito del cuore. Heart Beat.
鈥漁n the Road鈥� di Walter Salles, 2012. Dove Sal Paradise/Jack Kerouac 猫 Sam Riley, Dean Moriarty/Neal Cassady 猫 Garrett Hedlund, e Kristen Stewart interpreta Marylou.
Jack Kerouac=John Heard, Neal Cassady=Nick Nolte, Carolyn Cassady=Sissy Spacek. Il film 猫 del 1980, diretto da John Byrum e si chiama 鈥淗eart Beat鈥�.
Letto da adolescente conteneva la voglia di movimento e cambiamento che era in me. La rabbia e la ribellione. La giovent霉 e l鈥檃more.
Parlava la mia lingua, parlava a me direttamente. Era quello che avrei voluto sentir dire ai miei amici, e quello che avrei voluto dire ai miei amici.
Fu uno shock. Un trauma molto bello e piacevole.
-Dobbiamo andare e non fermarci finch茅 non siamo arrivati.
-Dove andiamo?
-Non lo so, ma dobbiamo andare.
Fu vera gloria?
Non lo so. Allora, in quegli anni, subito dopo questo ne feci seguire un altro paio di Kerouac 鈥� ricordo Big Sur perch茅 ero affascinato dal nome e dal luogo. Mai ritrovata la stessa voce, la stessa musica.
Negli anni a seguire ho incontrato tante voci che di Kerouac si facevano beffe: un personaggio, pi霉 che uno scrittore, dicevano.
Non lo so. Mi tengo l鈥檃more per questo libro e per ci貌 che per me ha rappresentato: il battito del cuore. Heart Beat.
鈥漁n the Road鈥� di Walter Salles, 2012. Dove Sal Paradise/Jack Kerouac 猫 Sam Riley, Dean Moriarty/Neal Cassady 猫 Garrett Hedlund, e Kristen Stewart interpreta Marylou.
November 29, 2024
Rarely has it been so difficult, even painful, to come to the end of a text of 400 pages! So let me explain: the version of On The Road by Jack Kerouac is that of the original roll (1951). This role, which did a lot for the legend of Kerouac, was written in just three weeks!
We omit to specify that Kerouac had been working on this novel for two or even three years and that it was in a mad frenzy (doped with coffee!) He wrote this roll in one go after gluing each sheet individually. Of paper to make a single strip, thus assimilating it to the mythical route of Route 66, the one that crosses the USA from east to west; continuous reading, without the shadow of a paragraph, is perhaps a parallel with the monotony of this route 66 but that its text is long, long.
I would only add that this clean text, rendered in a standard format, was published about five years later; the political and economic context of the USA was different then. And the crazy American youth who discovered it then found there may have been different aspirations鈥攖hose of Kerouac when he was writing this novel.
Kerouac lives alone in New York with his mother after his father died in the story. Disembarks Neal Cassidy, a young thug but irresistible in his appetite to live, I would even say consume his life from all ends. Always with a woman, two or even three, he randomly consumes alcohol, marijuana, and benzedrine sex and moves without stopping !! He will be the black angel of Kerouac, weaving with him during their crazy hikes, with bonds so strong that we can make them believe they are indissoluble.
So in the car, go for a ride, walk, sniff, drink, fuck, in the order you want, separately or simultaneously!
Here we are in Paris with these knocking-off things, little or no adventures, but the road, pubs, drugs, girls, and the text becomes MAGICAL music, jazz, and bebop. But, just for these few pages, the detour is worth it.
So, it was tedious reading. I did not go into Kerouac's speech old-fashioned, but I assume it. Do we have to come to these great states of disrepair to appreciate life? It isn't my conception, the question of age and period. Indeed, I ask myself to say that the text would have aged a little.
We omit to specify that Kerouac had been working on this novel for two or even three years and that it was in a mad frenzy (doped with coffee!) He wrote this roll in one go after gluing each sheet individually. Of paper to make a single strip, thus assimilating it to the mythical route of Route 66, the one that crosses the USA from east to west; continuous reading, without the shadow of a paragraph, is perhaps a parallel with the monotony of this route 66 but that its text is long, long.
I would only add that this clean text, rendered in a standard format, was published about five years later; the political and economic context of the USA was different then. And the crazy American youth who discovered it then found there may have been different aspirations鈥攖hose of Kerouac when he was writing this novel.
Kerouac lives alone in New York with his mother after his father died in the story. Disembarks Neal Cassidy, a young thug but irresistible in his appetite to live, I would even say consume his life from all ends. Always with a woman, two or even three, he randomly consumes alcohol, marijuana, and benzedrine sex and moves without stopping !! He will be the black angel of Kerouac, weaving with him during their crazy hikes, with bonds so strong that we can make them believe they are indissoluble.
So in the car, go for a ride, walk, sniff, drink, fuck, in the order you want, separately or simultaneously!
Here we are in Paris with these knocking-off things, little or no adventures, but the road, pubs, drugs, girls, and the text becomes MAGICAL music, jazz, and bebop. But, just for these few pages, the detour is worth it.
So, it was tedious reading. I did not go into Kerouac's speech old-fashioned, but I assume it. Do we have to come to these great states of disrepair to appreciate life? It isn't my conception, the question of age and period. Indeed, I ask myself to say that the text would have aged a little.
July 9, 2017
This was a 4 star book based on what it represents, the history of the genre, and my enjoyment of travel.
From the get go, this is a stream of consciousness romp through North America. It seems like almost every city in the United States is mentioned at least once as Sal Paradise tells of his travels, the people he meets, those who join him, and his wild vagabond companion Dean Moriarity. I don't feel like the style of this book will appeal to everyone and I can easily see many losing interest part way in. But, if you are a fan of travelling in America, a scholar of literary genres, a hipster, and/or grew up in the 50s travelling the great American highways before interstates, you will find something in here for you.
There is also a lot of jazz influence in the writing. Several times the writing comes to a stop for an onomatopoedic side trip to a jazz club. This was especially interesting as I was listening to the audio.
Dean Moriarity - if nothing else, this book is worth it for Dean. The fact that Dean was based on a real person (Kerouac's friend Neal Cassady) makes his hijinks and destructive personality even more interesting. I am sure that he is a character that is idolized by some who read this, which is a bit scary! (Reminds me of those who idolize Alexander Supertramp from )
An interesting thing that happened while listening to this is twice I thought "this is reminding me of Hemingway" and less than a minute later, Hemingway is mentioned. It really reminded me of and Wkipedia mentions that Kerouac did intentionally use the style of that book for On The Road.
Finally, as mentioned above, Kerouac based this on his life While listed as fiction, up until the final draft, the main characters had real names. The draft the Kerouac used was on long scroll without formatting or paragraph breaks. I mentioned the jazz influence and Kerouac apparently used the scroll in this way to mimic improvisational jazz. Sometimes the scroll can be seen on display - see photo below:
All in all a very interesting book with very interesting characters and a very interesting history.
From the get go, this is a stream of consciousness romp through North America. It seems like almost every city in the United States is mentioned at least once as Sal Paradise tells of his travels, the people he meets, those who join him, and his wild vagabond companion Dean Moriarity. I don't feel like the style of this book will appeal to everyone and I can easily see many losing interest part way in. But, if you are a fan of travelling in America, a scholar of literary genres, a hipster, and/or grew up in the 50s travelling the great American highways before interstates, you will find something in here for you.
There is also a lot of jazz influence in the writing. Several times the writing comes to a stop for an onomatopoedic side trip to a jazz club. This was especially interesting as I was listening to the audio.
Dean Moriarity - if nothing else, this book is worth it for Dean. The fact that Dean was based on a real person (Kerouac's friend Neal Cassady) makes his hijinks and destructive personality even more interesting. I am sure that he is a character that is idolized by some who read this, which is a bit scary! (Reminds me of those who idolize Alexander Supertramp from )
An interesting thing that happened while listening to this is twice I thought "this is reminding me of Hemingway" and less than a minute later, Hemingway is mentioned. It really reminded me of and Wkipedia mentions that Kerouac did intentionally use the style of that book for On The Road.
Finally, as mentioned above, Kerouac based this on his life While listed as fiction, up until the final draft, the main characters had real names. The draft the Kerouac used was on long scroll without formatting or paragraph breaks. I mentioned the jazz influence and Kerouac apparently used the scroll in this way to mimic improvisational jazz. Sometimes the scroll can be seen on display - see photo below:
All in all a very interesting book with very interesting characters and a very interesting history.
June 9, 2022
Sorry I feel a bit embarrassed, in some ways, but okay with my decision to DNF. I know this is a classic but.....I had no connection to the people, absolutely none, nor the places. I know it's a special book....but this one isn't for me. A bunch of hoons running around America. 馃檨
January 17, 2011
You couldn't pay me enough to re-read this baby now. Well, okay, I'd probably do it for 拢200. Alright, 拢100. Cash.
Kerouac took over from Steinbeck as the guy I had to read everything by when I was a young person. Steinbeck himself took over from Ray Bradbury. All three American males with a sentimental streak as wide as the Rio Grande.
Whole thing nearly turned me into a weepy hitchhiker who plays saxophone while he waits for a ride, then gets abducted by aliens who are these very kind blue globes, I know it sounds crazy, blue globes, right, & who take him back to 1922 where he persuades the boss of the local fruit farm syndicate to double the workers' wages and build a school.
Kerouac took over from Steinbeck as the guy I had to read everything by when I was a young person. Steinbeck himself took over from Ray Bradbury. All three American males with a sentimental streak as wide as the Rio Grande.
Whole thing nearly turned me into a weepy hitchhiker who plays saxophone while he waits for a ride, then gets abducted by aliens who are these very kind blue globes, I know it sounds crazy, blue globes, right, & who take him back to 1922 where he persuades the boss of the local fruit farm syndicate to double the workers' wages and build a school.
May 9, 2018
Here鈥檚 the thing : there鈥檚 a time to read Kerouac, and it鈥檚 not your thirties. I first read 鈥淥n the Road鈥� when I was 19 and I loved how meandering and crazy it was鈥� and in retrospect, I know it鈥檚 because I was similarly scattered and unhinged. When one鈥檚 in that headspace, it鈥檚 natural to appreciate that there鈥檚 a classic out there that captures the sort of spontaneous madness that most people only experience in the first half of their twenties. I re-read it when I was twenty-two, and I still thought it was brilliant. Reading it at thirty-three made me cringe way more than I had imagined it would鈥�
In historical context, what Kerouac did with this book was revolutionary and it鈥檚 important to remember that: the book is dynamic, it threw caution and literary standards to the wind and ran as far and as fast as it could from what Jack considered to be 鈥渆stablishment鈥�. And on that basis, it's worth checking out.
Of course nothing that goes on in this book makes a lick of sense to me now. The lifestyle these characters have is beyond unsustainable and their carelessness with each other is actually quite distressing. And while obviously, the way male characters handle female characters infuriated me, the ladies in this book don鈥檛 have much in the way of redeeming qualities either: being 鈥渇ree鈥� is all nice and good, but it should never ever mean treating other human beings like garbage. And there is a copious amount of that in 鈥淥n the Road鈥�, which made me really sad. It鈥檚 no secret that this is a roman 脿 clef and that most of the events described in the novel are a version of something that actually happened, and these people creating so much suffering for themselves and those around them weighs the book down like an anchor. The idolization of Dean Moriarty 鈥� who is an epic douchewaffle 鈥� is definitely the part that was the hardest to digest this time around. Not to mention the glaring hypocrisy and pseudo-intellectual pretentiousness.
The hallucinatory descriptions of trips, both physical and psychological are still entrancing and often poetic, even when they are incoherent. As an ode to freewheeling youth, it has moments of inspiring and lyrical bravado. But I can鈥檛 escape the knowledge that all of Sal Paradise鈥檚 promises are empty, and that Kerouac never truly found what he was looking for.
I鈥檒l be revisiting his other books eventually, to see if they hold up on their own, but do yourself a favor: if you read this book when you were young(er) and loved it, leave it alone.
In historical context, what Kerouac did with this book was revolutionary and it鈥檚 important to remember that: the book is dynamic, it threw caution and literary standards to the wind and ran as far and as fast as it could from what Jack considered to be 鈥渆stablishment鈥�. And on that basis, it's worth checking out.
Of course nothing that goes on in this book makes a lick of sense to me now. The lifestyle these characters have is beyond unsustainable and their carelessness with each other is actually quite distressing. And while obviously, the way male characters handle female characters infuriated me, the ladies in this book don鈥檛 have much in the way of redeeming qualities either: being 鈥渇ree鈥� is all nice and good, but it should never ever mean treating other human beings like garbage. And there is a copious amount of that in 鈥淥n the Road鈥�, which made me really sad. It鈥檚 no secret that this is a roman 脿 clef and that most of the events described in the novel are a version of something that actually happened, and these people creating so much suffering for themselves and those around them weighs the book down like an anchor. The idolization of Dean Moriarty 鈥� who is an epic douchewaffle 鈥� is definitely the part that was the hardest to digest this time around. Not to mention the glaring hypocrisy and pseudo-intellectual pretentiousness.
The hallucinatory descriptions of trips, both physical and psychological are still entrancing and often poetic, even when they are incoherent. As an ode to freewheeling youth, it has moments of inspiring and lyrical bravado. But I can鈥檛 escape the knowledge that all of Sal Paradise鈥檚 promises are empty, and that Kerouac never truly found what he was looking for.
I鈥檒l be revisiting his other books eventually, to see if they hold up on their own, but do yourself a favor: if you read this book when you were young(er) and loved it, leave it alone.
Want to read
December 15, 2023i love reading red flag books
May 6, 2008
I personally can't stand the characters. They cover up irresponsibility and real hurt to people in the guise of being artists. However, I do think there is more to this story.
Sure, they are jerks and they are bums and they are full of a lot of BS but as the book progresses, it becomes clear that they know it. These guys are also WW2 vets, and very dissimilar to the hippies who follow them, they do not have any anti-American or anti-establishment feelings. Also, they show a deep remorse and guilt over their actions. There is a shame, because they recognize what jerks they are. After several weeks of living with the mexican girl and her son, the narrator deserts her and he knows that he'll never live up to his promise to come back. He hates himself for this but it doesn't stop him. While he so desperately seeks to squeeze the wonder out of life, he lets everything really beautiful-such as love with a woman or any real human relationships slip from his careless grasp. The narrator as more of a terribly sad man, not just a happy-go-lucky thrill seker.
I do wonder about the real life Dean Moriarty. Did you realize that he was the bus driver in Wolfe's Electric Kool-aid Acid Test as well as mentioned in several Grateful Dead songs? Something about that guy really insprired the artisits around him.
As for the writing, it is beautiful and I think some of the best writing ever done about America. Googgle " Quotes" and reread a few of those. Its beautiful stuff.
Sure, they are jerks and they are bums and they are full of a lot of BS but as the book progresses, it becomes clear that they know it. These guys are also WW2 vets, and very dissimilar to the hippies who follow them, they do not have any anti-American or anti-establishment feelings. Also, they show a deep remorse and guilt over their actions. There is a shame, because they recognize what jerks they are. After several weeks of living with the mexican girl and her son, the narrator deserts her and he knows that he'll never live up to his promise to come back. He hates himself for this but it doesn't stop him. While he so desperately seeks to squeeze the wonder out of life, he lets everything really beautiful-such as love with a woman or any real human relationships slip from his careless grasp. The narrator as more of a terribly sad man, not just a happy-go-lucky thrill seker.
I do wonder about the real life Dean Moriarty. Did you realize that he was the bus driver in Wolfe's Electric Kool-aid Acid Test as well as mentioned in several Grateful Dead songs? Something about that guy really insprired the artisits around him.
As for the writing, it is beautiful and I think some of the best writing ever done about America. Googgle " Quotes" and reread a few of those. Its beautiful stuff.
July 3, 2018
I read this book when I was 20 and I loved it, it spoke like Truth to my Heart, and every summer I and one or some of my increasingly hairy friends got on the road West, to the Rockies, to the Grand Tetons, to backpack and climb and breathe in for a time the pure air of the West. Freedom, man! Back to Nature, one with Nature. At its best the writing was a celebration of all that is good in life, of love, of intoxications and lusts of various kinds. On the road! Romantic. Ecstatic. 5 stars.
At 30 I read it again to see if it was still vibrant and relevant and happy to be all alive. I was looking for a touchstone, spinning out of control, recently divorced, directionless, had bought (what I thought was, for no clear reason) a hot car, spent money I didn't have on a cool stereo system, started to live and drink and drive faster and faster. I had been teaching at that point eight years; My life was in a crisis of my own making. I was deeply disappointed in myself as what I read in the writing not only didn't reinforce my bad choices but reflected on my own excesses and mistakes and sadness; I found the writing turgid, narcissistic, badly edited, somewhat misogynist, drunken wastrel prose, though I saw better this time in it the deep sadness underlying the wild surface. I thought it was writing of a certain time in your life, but when you grow up you leave those childish things behind. I tried to get my life together and went to grad school. On the road, eh. I had found it in some ways juvenile and about selfish individualism this time, mine and his. 2 stars.
At 60 I am in my 38th year of teaching, now in my happy third marriage, with five kids I feel I am lucky to have and be able to support who all still love me. I am happy to be alive and healthy. I survived some very rocky years when much worse might have ensued. So when I took a road trip with my friend George to see my friend Corey in Boston and see Fenway Park, a bucket list item, we had a blast (notwithstanding a poem I wrote about it that makes fun of all the high expectations amidst all the rain). Loved the trip. We visited Kerouac's gravesite in Lowell and in the mist of the day hovered over George's IPhone to listen to Kerouac's own voice reading his words from "October in the Railroad Earth."
The prose I find on my third reading is poetic, deeply committed to working class and democratic values, and a celebration of life. When I get home I start to reread all the Kerouac I still have in the house, including On the Road, which I find I love like an old friend I have had been "on the outs" with, as my Dad used to say. We are pals again, we love being on the road! Romantic, just what I need in this phase of my life, connecting passionate language to life. It's a little uneven, it's not always really great language or storytelling, it feels sometimes like a young man's diary, but I also like that for the immediacy of that, too, and it is important to me for the joy and sadness in it. 4 stars. Not because it is one of the greatest books of all time for all people. It's a "boy book" in what are sometimes painful ways to read, because the women always seem peripheral to the men. But 4 stars + because it is a very personal book right now for me, speaking to me in ways I need to listen to, especially the darker aspects of it, when it veers dangerously close to madness and regret.
Jack Kerouac reading from On the Road in the surreal circumstance of an appearance on The Steve Allen Show:
At 30 I read it again to see if it was still vibrant and relevant and happy to be all alive. I was looking for a touchstone, spinning out of control, recently divorced, directionless, had bought (what I thought was, for no clear reason) a hot car, spent money I didn't have on a cool stereo system, started to live and drink and drive faster and faster. I had been teaching at that point eight years; My life was in a crisis of my own making. I was deeply disappointed in myself as what I read in the writing not only didn't reinforce my bad choices but reflected on my own excesses and mistakes and sadness; I found the writing turgid, narcissistic, badly edited, somewhat misogynist, drunken wastrel prose, though I saw better this time in it the deep sadness underlying the wild surface. I thought it was writing of a certain time in your life, but when you grow up you leave those childish things behind. I tried to get my life together and went to grad school. On the road, eh. I had found it in some ways juvenile and about selfish individualism this time, mine and his. 2 stars.
At 60 I am in my 38th year of teaching, now in my happy third marriage, with five kids I feel I am lucky to have and be able to support who all still love me. I am happy to be alive and healthy. I survived some very rocky years when much worse might have ensued. So when I took a road trip with my friend George to see my friend Corey in Boston and see Fenway Park, a bucket list item, we had a blast (notwithstanding a poem I wrote about it that makes fun of all the high expectations amidst all the rain). Loved the trip. We visited Kerouac's gravesite in Lowell and in the mist of the day hovered over George's IPhone to listen to Kerouac's own voice reading his words from "October in the Railroad Earth."
The prose I find on my third reading is poetic, deeply committed to working class and democratic values, and a celebration of life. When I get home I start to reread all the Kerouac I still have in the house, including On the Road, which I find I love like an old friend I have had been "on the outs" with, as my Dad used to say. We are pals again, we love being on the road! Romantic, just what I need in this phase of my life, connecting passionate language to life. It's a little uneven, it's not always really great language or storytelling, it feels sometimes like a young man's diary, but I also like that for the immediacy of that, too, and it is important to me for the joy and sadness in it. 4 stars. Not because it is one of the greatest books of all time for all people. It's a "boy book" in what are sometimes painful ways to read, because the women always seem peripheral to the men. But 4 stars + because it is a very personal book right now for me, speaking to me in ways I need to listen to, especially the darker aspects of it, when it veers dangerously close to madness and regret.
Jack Kerouac reading from On the Road in the surreal circumstance of an appearance on The Steve Allen Show:
February 16, 2018
丿賴 爻鬲丕乇賴 賲蹖鈥屫�!
丿乇賲賵乇丿 丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 爻禺鬲 賲蹖鈥屫堎嗁� 亘賳賵蹖爻賲. 丕賳賯丿乇 讴賴 趩蹖夭賴丕蹖 噩丕賱亘蹖 亘乇丕蹖 賲賳 丿丕卮鬲. 賲鬲賳 乇賵賵賳蹖 丿丕卮鬲貙 丕鬲賮丕賯丕鬲 賴蹖噩丕賳鈥屫з嗂屫� 賵 鬲噩乇亘賴鈥屬嗀簇� 亘賵丿賳貙 乇蹖鬲賲 亘丕賱丕蹖蹖 丿丕卮鬲貙 賵賯鬲蹖 賲蹖鈥屫堎嗀� 丨爻 賲蹖鈥屭┴必� 讴賴 丿丕乇蹖 賲蹖鈥屫堐屰� 亘丕賴丕卮賵賳. 鬲賵氐蹖賮丕鬲 賲丨卮乇蹖 丿丕卮鬲 讴賴 賲蹖鈥屫堎嗀池� 噩丕丿賴鈥屬囏й� 丌賲乇蹖讴丕 賵 噩夭讴賱丕亘鈥屬囏� 賵 賲賴賲賵賳蹖丕 賵 亘蹖丕亘賵賳丕 賵 賲讴夭蹖讴 賵 噩賳诏賱鈥屬囏ж� 乇賵 亘丕賴丕卮 鬲噩乇亘賴 讴賳蹖. 賲賳 丕蹖賳 乇賵 禺蹖賱蹖 丌乇賵賲 禺賵賳丿賲. 賴乇 丕夭 诏丕賴蹖 讴賲蹖 丕夭卮 乇賵 賲蹖鈥屫堎嗀� 賵 丕蹖賳 禺蹖賱蹖 賱匕鬲鈥屫ㄘ� 亘賵丿.
毓蹖卮 賲丿丕賲!
鬲賵氐蹖賴 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗁呚� 亘賴 賴賲賴貙 讴賴 亘禺賵賳賳卮 賵 趩賴 亘賴鬲乇 讴賴 丨蹖賳 禺賵賳丿賳卮 丿乇賲賵乇丿卮 鬲丨賯蹖賯 賴賲 亘讴賳賳. 賲孬賱賳 賵賯鬲蹖 丕夭 鬲乇丕賳賴鈥屫й� 賳丕賲 賲蹖鈥屫ㄘ必� 丿丕賳賱賵丿卮 賲蹖 讴乇丿賲 賵 丨蹖賳 禺賵賳丿賳 丕賵賳 氐賮丨丕鬲 诏賵卮 賲蹖鈥屫ж呚�. 蹖丕 賳賯卮賴 丌賲乇蹖讴丕 乇賵 賳诏丕賴 賲蹖鈥屭┴必� 賵 賲爻蹖乇 丨乇讴鬲鈥屫促堎� 乇賵 亘乇乇爻蹖 賲蹖鈥屭┴必�. 讴賱蹖 丕爻賲 賵 趩蹖夭 噩丕賱亘 賲蹖鈥屫促� 鬲賵蹖 丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 倬蹖丿丕 讴乇丿 賵 丿乇 賳賴丕蹖鬲 卮賲丕 乇賵 毓丕卮賯 爻賮乇 賵 鬲噩乇亘賴 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗁�.
亘丕蹖丿 乇賮鬲 爻賮乇. 亘丕蹖丿 丿蹖丿 賵 亘丕蹖丿 賲孬賱 噩乇賯賴鈥屬囏й� 胤賱丕蹖蹖鈥屫辟嗂� 丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 丿賵蹖丿 賵 丿賵蹖丿 鬲丕 丕夭 賳賮爻 丕賮鬲丕丿!
丿乇賲賵乇丿 丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 爻禺鬲 賲蹖鈥屫堎嗁� 亘賳賵蹖爻賲. 丕賳賯丿乇 讴賴 趩蹖夭賴丕蹖 噩丕賱亘蹖 亘乇丕蹖 賲賳 丿丕卮鬲. 賲鬲賳 乇賵賵賳蹖 丿丕卮鬲貙 丕鬲賮丕賯丕鬲 賴蹖噩丕賳鈥屫з嗂屫� 賵 鬲噩乇亘賴鈥屬嗀簇� 亘賵丿賳貙 乇蹖鬲賲 亘丕賱丕蹖蹖 丿丕卮鬲貙 賵賯鬲蹖 賲蹖鈥屫堎嗀� 丨爻 賲蹖鈥屭┴必� 讴賴 丿丕乇蹖 賲蹖鈥屫堐屰� 亘丕賴丕卮賵賳. 鬲賵氐蹖賮丕鬲 賲丨卮乇蹖 丿丕卮鬲 讴賴 賲蹖鈥屫堎嗀池� 噩丕丿賴鈥屬囏й� 丌賲乇蹖讴丕 賵 噩夭讴賱丕亘鈥屬囏� 賵 賲賴賲賵賳蹖丕 賵 亘蹖丕亘賵賳丕 賵 賲讴夭蹖讴 賵 噩賳诏賱鈥屬囏ж� 乇賵 亘丕賴丕卮 鬲噩乇亘賴 讴賳蹖. 賲賳 丕蹖賳 乇賵 禺蹖賱蹖 丌乇賵賲 禺賵賳丿賲. 賴乇 丕夭 诏丕賴蹖 讴賲蹖 丕夭卮 乇賵 賲蹖鈥屫堎嗀� 賵 丕蹖賳 禺蹖賱蹖 賱匕鬲鈥屫ㄘ� 亘賵丿.
毓蹖卮 賲丿丕賲!
鬲賵氐蹖賴 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗁呚� 亘賴 賴賲賴貙 讴賴 亘禺賵賳賳卮 賵 趩賴 亘賴鬲乇 讴賴 丨蹖賳 禺賵賳丿賳卮 丿乇賲賵乇丿卮 鬲丨賯蹖賯 賴賲 亘讴賳賳. 賲孬賱賳 賵賯鬲蹖 丕夭 鬲乇丕賳賴鈥屫й� 賳丕賲 賲蹖鈥屫ㄘ必� 丿丕賳賱賵丿卮 賲蹖 讴乇丿賲 賵 丨蹖賳 禺賵賳丿賳 丕賵賳 氐賮丨丕鬲 诏賵卮 賲蹖鈥屫ж呚�. 蹖丕 賳賯卮賴 丌賲乇蹖讴丕 乇賵 賳诏丕賴 賲蹖鈥屭┴必� 賵 賲爻蹖乇 丨乇讴鬲鈥屫促堎� 乇賵 亘乇乇爻蹖 賲蹖鈥屭┴必�. 讴賱蹖 丕爻賲 賵 趩蹖夭 噩丕賱亘 賲蹖鈥屫促� 鬲賵蹖 丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 倬蹖丿丕 讴乇丿 賵 丿乇 賳賴丕蹖鬲 卮賲丕 乇賵 毓丕卮賯 爻賮乇 賵 鬲噩乇亘賴 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗁�.
亘丕蹖丿 乇賮鬲 爻賮乇. 亘丕蹖丿 丿蹖丿 賵 亘丕蹖丿 賲孬賱 噩乇賯賴鈥屬囏й� 胤賱丕蹖蹖鈥屫辟嗂� 丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 丿賵蹖丿 賵 丿賵蹖丿 鬲丕 丕夭 賳賮爻 丕賮鬲丕丿!
November 11, 2009
There are people, I鈥檓 quite prepared to admit, that I am more than happy to spend time with 鈥� even an entire week if needs be - as long, that is, as they agree to remain within proper and predictable boundaries. And often those boundaries are pretty well fixed by the covers of the book that I find them in. Look, I don鈥檛 mind if you don鈥檛 wash or you get so drunk or stoned or both that you find yourself fast asleep hanging onto a toilet to make sure you don鈥檛 fall off the world. I don鈥檛 care if you wake up in the morning after your head has slid down the side of the toilet and you find yourself covered in proof that US sailors aren鈥檛 as accurate shots as they make themselves out to be. I don鈥檛 care if you turn up your jazz records so loud that it wakes every single bloody kid down the street so that they bawl out at the full stretch of their lungs from midnight right through to 6 am - just as long as all of those kids and everyone else living in that street who鈥檚 bleary eyed and up half the night shut the hell up as soon as I close the covers of the book.
Ah yes鈥�
I鈥檓 not proud, I鈥檒l admit it, I鈥檓 infinitely too straight to ever spend any real quality time with Mr Kerouac and his assorted friends. If I was there with them you鈥檇 have no trouble finding me. I鈥檇 be the guy in the back seat of their car with his eyes tight shut trying to pretend to be asleep, even if I would be listening, listening intently. Just the same, I already know that the bad driving would force my eyelids open just as surely as if matchsticks had been propped in there under the lashes. Yes, yes, I would find the driving the most difficult thing to deal with. I鈥檝e never taken any sorts of objective measurements or done the comparisons that would need to be done, but I just don鈥檛 think my penis is small enough to make me need to risk death by car accident so as to prove my manhood. Shit no.
Still, this novel rings out and over and through a million imitations. It might well be a sad-but-true fact I鈥檓 telling you here, but my bet is that outright plagiarists have made ten gazillion times more than Kerouac ever did out of his beats. They鈥檝e copied him in film and in book and in song. And I鈥檓 prepared to say here that there is no question that some of those imitations are nearly as good as Pepsi and some, well, some are more like home-brand Cola, but there have always been others that are not just the real thing, but they鈥檝e even had a splash of whisky added 鈥� all pure and inspired. Those imitators taste like originals, either that or they have had their ears whispered into as if by the devil himself (so that it鈥檚 just like walking down the middle of a street where all lampposts have their streetlights smashed, but you鈥檙e okay and you鈥檙e going to be okay because right beside you is Tom Waits himself, and it鈥檚 Waits with a saxophone moaning low from an open window of a tenement building here-abouts 鈥� like he did that night on track nine from Nighthawks at the Diner).
This is a book affected by the rhythms of Jazz and it shows in virtually every sentence. He even mentions one of my all time favourite songs as he鈥檚 heading down the road somewhere on a particularly good night 鈥� Billie Holiday鈥檚 version of Lover Man sticks in his head (and can you really imagine a better song to have stuck there?) It is hard to read this book without a soundtrack of Dizzy Gillespie or Thelonious Monk or maybe even the Lady herself humming in your head, though maybe not singing, maybe just vamping one-handed on some just out-of-tune upright piano while the bass man taps his stings half-heartedly, half-heartedly and no more. Come here and find me a blindman for this piano. Still, there鈥檚 always music here, lots of music. And I don鈥檛 mean just in reference, but in the beat of the words as they hit the page. Christ, maybe even as residue sound from the keystrokes tapping against the paper scrunched up in an old manual typewriter.
Ah yes, ah yes鈥�
Like I said, I鈥檓 just too straight for the madness of all this. The crazed brothel scene near the end with the young Latin American girls plastered and passed out and violated in expectation of little more than enough money to buy a pack of cigarettes 鈥� even if, perhaps, they received much more than that, you know, in the end, even if no one seemed to know how much was actually spent. It was clear from the beginning how much would be taken from all of these all-too-young little angels. Yes, that was all too much for my all too dull and far too prudish categorical imperatives. I struggled and I felt for those young girls and for what was being taken from them for a fist full of paper worth virtually nothing.
There was lots of that 鈥� lots of the sorts of things that good sons and good employees and good fathers struggle up against and fight up against and find just all too confronting. And I won鈥檛 hear any of your half-baked psychological bullshit about repressed desires. I鈥檓 not in the least trying to run away from what I want the most. I鈥檓 just warning you, that鈥檚 all; especially since while reading this book you鈥檒l be brought up smack face-to-face close and right up far on the inside of this guy's head 鈥� and some of the places he has plans to take you, well, they aren鈥檛 on any Women鈥檚 Weekly package plane and bus tour itinerary. I mean that for sure. And your passport, well, that not going to do you any good either, not where he鈥檚 taking you. It is best you know right now that if someone asks you for your passport along this road then it鈥檚 just as likely that they鈥檙e planning to steal it from you. Like I said, I鈥檓 warning you, that鈥檚 all.
Listen to that. That trilling on the piano. That isn鈥檛 just there to show off the virtuosity of the guy with his fingers a blur over the keys; no, it鈥檚 not that. That鈥檚 there to remind you that round about midnight you鈥檙e going need to skip and step and jump onto a fright-train and to not forget that you鈥檝e only got one shot and that鈥檚 when she slows up just a little bit on the bend. The trill is to remind you that every drink you have between now and then is going to cost you double as you run for that open door, the one with the hand sticking out of the dark and with someone you think you know calling out your name. But think nothing of it now, my friend, put it right out of your mind.
Although, if it was me I would recommend you remember 鈥� for there鈥檚 not a single person here who doesn鈥檛 love you, who isn鈥檛 your brother; just as there鈥檚 not a single person here who won鈥檛 leave you for dead out in the freezing cold of the night or abandon you in a strange city with your head stuck down a toilet bowl because the ice cream they recommended you eat this morning, the ice cream they said was a health food, really didn鈥檛 agree with the whisky they passed you this afternoon just as they nudged you in the ribs and pointed out that pretty little 15 year old Mexican girl sitting all alone and lonely and lost somewhere deep down in almond brown of her own eyes. The same brown eyes she used to furtively check you over with 鈥� what? Has that been for the third time now? Remember, there鈥檚 not one of them that won鈥檛 leave you to fend for yourself even as they drive off in their fifteen cent taxi with a quick glance back over their shoulder to see you walking stark naked and crying down the street because the Mexican dream girl you'd been talking to finally did get on her Greyhound Bus after she turned away from you spilling your guts into the gutter all almond coloured from the vanilla icecream and whisky you'd mixed together for their health giving properties. And damn it if you weren鈥檛 certain, as certain as you鈥檝e ever been, that you had finally and for the first time in your life fallen in love and this time, this time it was for sure. For sure.
You鈥檒l either love this book or hate it 鈥� cos that's the way this book is. Do you understand what I saying to you? You don鈥檛 have to love it just because it鈥檚 seminal 鈥� if you鈥檙e going to love it the fact it is seminal won鈥檛 add anything to the pleasure, just as if you are going to hate it the fact it spawned other works of art isn鈥檛 going to help in any way either.
Ah, I say, ah yes, that鈥檚 got to be me now, yes鈥�
Ah yes鈥�
I鈥檓 not proud, I鈥檒l admit it, I鈥檓 infinitely too straight to ever spend any real quality time with Mr Kerouac and his assorted friends. If I was there with them you鈥檇 have no trouble finding me. I鈥檇 be the guy in the back seat of their car with his eyes tight shut trying to pretend to be asleep, even if I would be listening, listening intently. Just the same, I already know that the bad driving would force my eyelids open just as surely as if matchsticks had been propped in there under the lashes. Yes, yes, I would find the driving the most difficult thing to deal with. I鈥檝e never taken any sorts of objective measurements or done the comparisons that would need to be done, but I just don鈥檛 think my penis is small enough to make me need to risk death by car accident so as to prove my manhood. Shit no.
Still, this novel rings out and over and through a million imitations. It might well be a sad-but-true fact I鈥檓 telling you here, but my bet is that outright plagiarists have made ten gazillion times more than Kerouac ever did out of his beats. They鈥檝e copied him in film and in book and in song. And I鈥檓 prepared to say here that there is no question that some of those imitations are nearly as good as Pepsi and some, well, some are more like home-brand Cola, but there have always been others that are not just the real thing, but they鈥檝e even had a splash of whisky added 鈥� all pure and inspired. Those imitators taste like originals, either that or they have had their ears whispered into as if by the devil himself (so that it鈥檚 just like walking down the middle of a street where all lampposts have their streetlights smashed, but you鈥檙e okay and you鈥檙e going to be okay because right beside you is Tom Waits himself, and it鈥檚 Waits with a saxophone moaning low from an open window of a tenement building here-abouts 鈥� like he did that night on track nine from Nighthawks at the Diner).
This is a book affected by the rhythms of Jazz and it shows in virtually every sentence. He even mentions one of my all time favourite songs as he鈥檚 heading down the road somewhere on a particularly good night 鈥� Billie Holiday鈥檚 version of Lover Man sticks in his head (and can you really imagine a better song to have stuck there?) It is hard to read this book without a soundtrack of Dizzy Gillespie or Thelonious Monk or maybe even the Lady herself humming in your head, though maybe not singing, maybe just vamping one-handed on some just out-of-tune upright piano while the bass man taps his stings half-heartedly, half-heartedly and no more. Come here and find me a blindman for this piano. Still, there鈥檚 always music here, lots of music. And I don鈥檛 mean just in reference, but in the beat of the words as they hit the page. Christ, maybe even as residue sound from the keystrokes tapping against the paper scrunched up in an old manual typewriter.
Ah yes, ah yes鈥�
Like I said, I鈥檓 just too straight for the madness of all this. The crazed brothel scene near the end with the young Latin American girls plastered and passed out and violated in expectation of little more than enough money to buy a pack of cigarettes 鈥� even if, perhaps, they received much more than that, you know, in the end, even if no one seemed to know how much was actually spent. It was clear from the beginning how much would be taken from all of these all-too-young little angels. Yes, that was all too much for my all too dull and far too prudish categorical imperatives. I struggled and I felt for those young girls and for what was being taken from them for a fist full of paper worth virtually nothing.
There was lots of that 鈥� lots of the sorts of things that good sons and good employees and good fathers struggle up against and fight up against and find just all too confronting. And I won鈥檛 hear any of your half-baked psychological bullshit about repressed desires. I鈥檓 not in the least trying to run away from what I want the most. I鈥檓 just warning you, that鈥檚 all; especially since while reading this book you鈥檒l be brought up smack face-to-face close and right up far on the inside of this guy's head 鈥� and some of the places he has plans to take you, well, they aren鈥檛 on any Women鈥檚 Weekly package plane and bus tour itinerary. I mean that for sure. And your passport, well, that not going to do you any good either, not where he鈥檚 taking you. It is best you know right now that if someone asks you for your passport along this road then it鈥檚 just as likely that they鈥檙e planning to steal it from you. Like I said, I鈥檓 warning you, that鈥檚 all.
Listen to that. That trilling on the piano. That isn鈥檛 just there to show off the virtuosity of the guy with his fingers a blur over the keys; no, it鈥檚 not that. That鈥檚 there to remind you that round about midnight you鈥檙e going need to skip and step and jump onto a fright-train and to not forget that you鈥檝e only got one shot and that鈥檚 when she slows up just a little bit on the bend. The trill is to remind you that every drink you have between now and then is going to cost you double as you run for that open door, the one with the hand sticking out of the dark and with someone you think you know calling out your name. But think nothing of it now, my friend, put it right out of your mind.
Although, if it was me I would recommend you remember 鈥� for there鈥檚 not a single person here who doesn鈥檛 love you, who isn鈥檛 your brother; just as there鈥檚 not a single person here who won鈥檛 leave you for dead out in the freezing cold of the night or abandon you in a strange city with your head stuck down a toilet bowl because the ice cream they recommended you eat this morning, the ice cream they said was a health food, really didn鈥檛 agree with the whisky they passed you this afternoon just as they nudged you in the ribs and pointed out that pretty little 15 year old Mexican girl sitting all alone and lonely and lost somewhere deep down in almond brown of her own eyes. The same brown eyes she used to furtively check you over with 鈥� what? Has that been for the third time now? Remember, there鈥檚 not one of them that won鈥檛 leave you to fend for yourself even as they drive off in their fifteen cent taxi with a quick glance back over their shoulder to see you walking stark naked and crying down the street because the Mexican dream girl you'd been talking to finally did get on her Greyhound Bus after she turned away from you spilling your guts into the gutter all almond coloured from the vanilla icecream and whisky you'd mixed together for their health giving properties. And damn it if you weren鈥檛 certain, as certain as you鈥檝e ever been, that you had finally and for the first time in your life fallen in love and this time, this time it was for sure. For sure.
You鈥檒l either love this book or hate it 鈥� cos that's the way this book is. Do you understand what I saying to you? You don鈥檛 have to love it just because it鈥檚 seminal 鈥� if you鈥檙e going to love it the fact it is seminal won鈥檛 add anything to the pleasure, just as if you are going to hate it the fact it spawned other works of art isn鈥檛 going to help in any way either.
Ah, I say, ah yes, that鈥檚 got to be me now, yes鈥�
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