Happy birthday, "On the Road"
Today marks the fiftieth anniversary of the publication of “On the Road.” The Paper Cut’s blog on the New York Times’ website has a good little feature on it here, and another cool post here, complete with video of Kerouac, accompanied by piano, explaining the book (albeit in his oddball way). I’m always tickled by the comments section on the bottom, where registered users can add their two cents. Some try challenging popular perception by spouting their own opinions and analysis. It amazes me how much books and writing polarize readers. Someone once told me, “You know you’re doing something right when there are people who hate your work and other people who love it.”
Oh, Kerouac. The man was an unbound, literary genius. Earlier this year I went through a short Kerouac binge, reading “Big Sur” and “The Dharma Bums.” For about a month I toyed with the idea of dropping everything to live in a country shack, or becoming a fire watcher for the California Department of Parks and Recreation. His books — “On the Road” or otherwise — infect you with restlessness and make you want to break away from your responsibilities and freefall through life. They’re imbedded with the roaming American spirit and are interesting sketches of Americana. The coolest thing — the thing you don’t realize when you’re deep in the lyricism — is they’re also very critical and symbolic.
But Kerouac is no literary idol. He had major flaws like every writer does. He recycled, renamed, and rewrote the same material, over and over. Despite the different names and places, each of his books tells the same story about the same people. It’s true he intended all his books to be chapters in his master project. He wanted to gel everything together, make the names consistent, but he didn’t get the chance.
Happy birthday, “On the Road.”
Oh, Kerouac. The man was an unbound, literary genius. Earlier this year I went through a short Kerouac binge, reading “Big Sur” and “The Dharma Bums.” For about a month I toyed with the idea of dropping everything to live in a country shack, or becoming a fire watcher for the California Department of Parks and Recreation. His books — “On the Road” or otherwise — infect you with restlessness and make you want to break away from your responsibilities and freefall through life. They’re imbedded with the roaming American spirit and are interesting sketches of Americana. The coolest thing — the thing you don’t realize when you’re deep in the lyricism — is they’re also very critical and symbolic.
But Kerouac is no literary idol. He had major flaws like every writer does. He recycled, renamed, and rewrote the same material, over and over. Despite the different names and places, each of his books tells the same story about the same people. It’s true he intended all his books to be chapters in his master project. He wanted to gel everything together, make the names consistent, but he didn’t get the chance.
Happy birthday, “On the Road.”
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