Jack Kerouac Books

I was looking for a biography of Jack Kerouac and the one thing I wanted to avoid was a fan's love letter. I wanted something as objective as possible which would illuminate the writer as a man rather than a hero, and that is exactly what I found in Tom Clark's text. It's quite concise with its narrative running just over 200 pages. Despite its brevity, the book managed to cover Kerouac's shortened life in a most satisfactory fashion. I also enjoyed the pictures which artfully adorn the chapters. The one thing that really stands out is the way in which he used drugs to self-medicate. He said that alcoholism was a happy disease but it certainly wasn't for him. Depression appeared to be an even more prominent feature of his personality than graphomania. I found the last forty pages of the tale very sad indeed. One longs to grab him by his flannel shirt and inject him with antabuse. All of this is wasted emotion, however. The man who is bent on killing himself can never be deterred from his goal. This is a skillful portrait of a legend as a human being.

One of the first things that you come to learn about Jack Kerouac, aside from geographics, is how much he loved to write. The man truly was relentless and driven. He carried a typewriter in his suitcase and being out of work was just an excuse or a good moment to write. I read this book and it saddened me to no end because Jack inspired and even pushed many to become writers, but didn't have the luxury of long life to see his own fruits. William S. Burroughs accredits Jack for his whole literary career.

Clark describes Kerouac in terms that you may not have ever thought of him in. He was a deeply religious person due to his mother, he was kind and gentle and, almost fatherly to his friends. He did love to drink and get high, like his contemporaries, but you really feel that he was as mis-guided by his flock as much as he tried to steer them. They truly were his extended family. This is the only Clark piece that I've read, and it was well worth the time and money spent.

I gave this book four stars because Clark seems to describe Kerouac as two people at all times. And maybe the question of that itself should've been examined further. I will recommend this book to others for sure. This book seems to encapsulate the Kerouac very well (for all his faults).

With the field of Kerouac studies widening in the last ten years, an often overlooked aspect of his contribution is the spiritual nature of his art. Not to say that Kerouac hasn't before been regarded as a "religious" writer, but there has not yet been a thorough critical study of how spirituality and religion influenced Kerouac's fiction and poetry. Ben Giamo has broken a significant barrier with Kerouac, the Word and the Way. He uses The Dulouz Legend to explain Kerouac's spiritual progression, and the result is a strikingly unique study of Kerouac's fiction. By focusing primarily on the text, rather than on Kerouac myth, he shows us how spirituality manifested itself in Kerouac's novels, while linking the work itself to the inner struggles of a writer in search of meaning.

My only criticisms of this book are minor. First, Giamo doesn't give a strong enough definition of "Spirtuality." Any Kerouac reader would assume this term is a label for Kerouac's Catholicism/Buddhism, when in fact Giamo intends for it to be understood in broader terms: Not simply a search for salvation or enlightenment, but ultimately the search for understanding of self--the search for IT. Stating this more strongly would have provided a better context for the book.

Second, Giamo certainly digs deep into Kerouac's Buddhist studies and how they influenced his writing, but this same attention is not paid to his lifelong adherence to Catholicism. As he immersed himself in Eastern thought, seeking a path of enlightenment--even isolating himself from the world in this pursuit--Kerouac still acknowledged the importance of Christianity in his life. This is evidenced by the seeming dualism apparent in his "middle" novels. Giamo addresses the "split-self" of Kerouac, especially referring to Desolation Angels and Big Sur, but he manages to separate Kerouac's Christian and Buddhist beliefs, as though Kerouac went from one to the other with no blurring of the two in between. Really, The Dharma Bums is Kerouac's only novel that relies soley on Buddhist teachings. Nearly all of the others--excepting the early novels--portray a man attempting to blend the beliefs of East and West to create a unique sense of self.

Even so, this is an extremely important book. Giamo has opened the door to an area of Kerouac studies that has only been given passing reference. Kerouac, The Word and the Way, firmly establishes Kerouac as a Spiritual Artist--rather than an existential wanderer--and takes a major step in clarifying Kerouac's place as one of America's most important writers.

Giamo's study is the best critical book on Kerouac I've read to date -- and I've read them all! Highly recommended for anyone with an interest in Jack Kerouac and the Beat Generation.

We listened to Dillon's reading of "On the Road" while on a road trip. What a treat! The only hitch is that his voice is so pleasant to listen to that, while already sleepy, we found ourselves dangerously lulled into nodding off. I had to listen to the last half of the book at home to avoid crashing. As for the book itself, the characterization and poetry of it were just awesome. It's one of those adventures that's a kick to read about because there's just no way that you'd want to live like the characters, but you sure want to know what they have to say.

I had always heard and read about this great book. I read it and it was very very hard to get through it. I could barely read it. It was basically a stream of consciousness rambling. I just don't get all the glowing reviews. Maybe because of the style I did not get it. Maybe because it was the beat generation which I was not a part of. If you want a good travel book--read Steinbeck Adventures with Charlie.

In his book, "Mexico City Blues," Jack Kerouac writes: "I want to be considered a jazz poet, blowing a long blues in an afternoon jam session on Sunday."

That's what his writing is like in "On the Road" - pure jazz. I think that's the best way to describe it. As an article from the NPR website says, when writing this book, Kerouac was: "improvising endlessly, just like a jazz musician caught up in the excitement of spontaneous creation." I love this description, and I think it is spot on.

The writing, which goes from straightforward to lyrical, to manic, to commonplace, and back again, is really wonderful, and really beat. The writing's spirit and energy drive this book, as the book's lead character, Sal Paradise, travels back and forth across the country, often accompanied with his friend, Dean. They travel, explore new places, meet new people and develop relationships, listen to music, explore drugs, and talk about their lives. This book is about the characters, their spirit, their yearnings, and their wanderings. It's about life. That's more than enough plot for me!

Now, if you're looking for a formulaic book, with a clear-cut rising and falling plot, this might not be for you. And, if you are bothered by characters that are reckless, irresponsible, and often somewhat childish, this book might not appeal.

But if you're focusing on these things, and not on the life and energy of the writing and the characters . . . if you miss the driving spirit behind the cross-country drives, then you're focusing on the wrong things. At least, I think so.

A very good book.

I guess this was an interesting book at the time. Today everything is available to today's youth in mainstream society - drugs, friendship with "benefits", cynicism, underground communities on the internet. So the newness of non-confirmism has been absorbed and is readily available. In fact, it's hard not to read this book without seeing all the societal and personal consequences - AIDS, the devastation of divorce on children, deadbeat dads, drunk driving accidents, hippy sellouts. Dean takes a chance at 110 mph - woo-hoo, am I supposed to be impressed?

Interesting as a template for 20th century wild living, but I found this hard to read as anything other than youthful stupidity - not to be admired or followed.

This is the (semi) fictional story of Jack Kerouac's travels around the U.S. and Mexico, dropping in on his much nuttier Beat pals, hitting the top, the bottom, and every place in between. Of course, this is pretty much about the early peccadillos of some actual people including Allan Ginsberg and, the lunatic, Neal Cassady (later, of "The Merry Pranksters"!).

The Beats were proto-Hippes, the main difference being that the Beats came along first and broke the "Establishment" ground, plus the Beats were not at all adverse to whatever occasional violence might result from their nefarious activities. Here, Kerouac takes on the personality of Sal Paradise and spins the tale of his notable sojourns in first person.

Any self-respecting Baby Boomer should be familiar with this hilarious and riotous tale of personal adventure, "On the Road". There's also an excellent audiobook of this story but read the book first.

My highest reccomendation!

The Subterraneans is a wonderfully written masterpiece. Having finished it, I can hardly bring myself to read any other author because the images are not as fresh. Kerouac paints a picture, or rather opens a window, to allow the modern reader to view what it was in the Beat generation. Written from the point of view of the author, this book gives an interesting perspective on not only his personal romance (as it could be taken to be a romance novel, although certainly not sappy, and has a good deal of ordinary commentary) but the struggle which falls upon many young lovers. In his relationship with the girl Mardou, we can see everything from his point of view, why he did things, how they turned out, etc. Being written from a perspective of a man at the end of his romantic journey, it looks back on the past with a two-pronged approach. We are able to see his perspectives as he was involved with the girl, and in a way only Kerouac could provide, his feelings of remorse after the fact. At the same time, you fall in love with the characters, feel as if you'd known them personally. It is a great book, and a necessary read for Beat-style fans!

Other reviews here for this book are great and very detailed. But I wont waste time with the usual cliches that come along when one describes Kerouac and/or his books. I wont try to be cool and hip like TOO many people do when they THINK they know about Kerouac and his work. Kerouac wouldnt be very fond of all that garbage either. Its what killed him. But the Subterraneans is just a great story that keeps your attention from start to end. Its fast paced and memorable. If youre new to Kerouac and/or you want to go beyond "On the Road" and have a peek into more Kerouac- this is the book for you. Its not a long one- but its one you wont soon forget.

There- a simple review. God Bless you Jack.

Loved Dharma Bums, can't forget On the Road, enraptured with Desolation Angels, and bored to death with the Subterraneans. Only read the first 20 pages, though. Couldn't get farther then that, so maybe it really picks up. Love the first page however. It's really Kerouac at his nonsensical worst.

I wouldn't say that the book is wholly without merit, but it left me with an eerie feeling, and a suspicion that it was an advertisement for a certain lifestyle, a cocktail, or god forbid khakis. It's a shameless embrace of impulsive living, embodied in the stylized way this book is written, and which was eventually Kerouac's undoing.

Is he fleecing the lowlifes he socializes with by writing down their stories? Is he glorifying, and capitalizing on, disfunction? It's difficult to answer those questions, but a more meaningful or entertaining book would preclude their asking.

Capote said of Jack Kerouac that he was "typing, not writing." That may have been unfair, but reading the Subterraneans, I felt I knew where he was coming from. That said, I kinda liked the ending. Gosh, I'm a sucker.

I liked "The Subterraneans" enough, even though it's not nearly on my list of best works by the author. But I'm hot penning these few sentances for peeps who have read this book. This is for the one's who are interested.
If you haven't read anything by Jack Kerouac before this is NOT the place to start. Though a good book with a good story, "The Subterraneans" is a hard read and not a great introduction to the author. Note I said hard in the previous sentance because this novel was written over three days and three nights and reads that way. Kerouac's prose is right on, as it usually is, but more dense this time, probably because the man was on speed when he penned it.
If you are new to this world of Kerouac then may I recomend to you the always popular "On the Road" or "The Dharma Bums" before this. They both show what Kerouac does best and are two of the best books he ever wrote. Poetry in the form of story.
"Subterraneans" is a good Kerouac book, not the best, not the worst, pretty much residing in the middle of his catalog, hence the three star rating(three to me means good, but there are better books out).
So there you go. You should read "Subterraneans" because again it is a good book. But I think it could, and probably would, turn off newbies to the Kerouac legend(there are always exceptions mind you), and it would be better to start off with one of the aforementioned titles first. Thanks.

On the Road is an amazing book in many ways. It is remarkable in that it doesn't have a plot, so much as events which don't have much in the way of interconnectedness. On the Road is a book of people and places, showing Kerouac's love for travel and his skill for making memorable and dynamic characters. Despite this lack of plot, On the Road is an interesting book, owing to the memorable characters which inhabit it. It is the erratic actions of these characters which drive the book forward, and create the most meaningful moments in the book.

I found some parts of the book to be slightly dull and lacking energy. Because of the lack of interconnectedness, I felt that some parts of the book lacked relevance, but to anyone who has this problem, I recommend that they continue on to the end, because Kerouac saves his greatest gem of pure lonesome beauty for the last two pages in a section which is impossible to disappoint.

I would recommend this book to anyone who has ever wanted to travel independently, without a plan, escort, or money. It is a book which will be loved by some and hated by others; it has the greatest chance of appreciation by those who would be willing to hitchhike or sleep in public places.

In addition to the story itself, the Introduction by Ann Charters is an insightful look at the influences on Kerouac and the atmosphere of the times he lived and wrote in.

This book is special to me, as I live in the city and drink in the bar where Kerouac once graced with his presence. I read this book in the thick of the semester so it took me longer than usual to finish, but it was by far the best novel I have ever read. You will learn in the forward by Ann Charters that Kerouac spent seven years "on the road" but took only three weeks to type the preliminary version of his novel. Kerouac was an alcoholic and part-time dope-fiend, which I strongly feel contributed to his excellent writing ability. I've read the book two more times since I bought it.

Oftentimes I've heard so much about a writer's amazing talent only to be disappointed when I get around to reading his/her work. Ayn Rand falls into this category to a degree and Bukowski falls all the way into it--but not Kerouac.

I don't know if Jack captured the heartbeat of a generation. I don't know if Jack motivated even one person to actually get "on the road". I do know that this is a book written with the skill of a master storyteller. Jack didn't try to convince you of anything--the philosophy contained in On the Road was haphazard and disjointed. What he did was simply tell a story that reads like prose poetry--or maybe it reads like jazz put to words. Simply put, it is just a joy to read this novel because it tells a story in a way that draws you in and lets you live it as well.

You may never actually get in your car and drive to the end of the road but this is the next best thing.

"on the road" is a book that i will hand my to son or daughter when they begin final passage to adulthood, it has been a solid rock in my growing and changing and given me more insight and knowledge of this world then i could have foreseen before i began reading it, its a book that i cant describe without thinking deeply and is what drew me to delve into the world of literature moreso then i ever had before in my life. it teaches love in spite of everything handed to you, deep compassion for the human race, adventure and the truths of life; it inspires the search for truth in the world and in yourself.

I've tried to read this book at three different points in my life. I read it again recently, thinking that I was too young to get it when I read it as a teenager and that this time around it would make sense. I still can't stand this book. Basically it's a bunch of drug-using, abusive, adulterous, self-centered, arrogant, pseudo-intellectual eggheaded jerks trying to freeload as much as they can with no regard to anyone or anything but themselves. No wonder this book was so popular with rock stars. If the American Dream is indeed what this book purports it to be, no wonder this country is so messed up.

I don't even know what to say about this book other than anyone who pretends to like this nonsense deserves to read it. Truman Capote's quote about Kerouac's writing, "That it's not writing, it's typing," probably sums up the matter better than anything I can say. What disappoints me I suppose is that I really want to like Kerouac - I love the idea of him, though I can't say I care much for his typing.

Yes, at first I thought the tape transcripts were just a lot of useless padding to fill out Jack's book. Boy, was I wrong! Here's how to read them:

1. Get a couple of Charley Parker albums (Bird and Diz will do nicely.)

2. Procure a jug of red wine and a joint.

3. Put on Bird, pour a glass of wine, and just relax with the music for a while.

4. Take a few tokes. Drink more wine. Get a nice mellow buzz.

5. NOW, begin reading the tape transcripts, and voila! You are invited to the party!

You will be sitting there with Cassidy and Kerouac, digging the flow of music and conversation and experiencing a new comprehension of their friends, wives and lovers. The gossip, the stories, the subtle oneupmanship between them is a delicious fly-on-the wall experience. By recreating the set and setting of these long ago conversations, you will experience an intimacy that is uncanny. I've done this a few times and was amazed at the greater understanding I had of these two complicated men. I read and re-read the transcripts with delight and was sorry there wasn't more of them.

This is surely what Kerouac intended. It's like the modern day extras and behind the scenes specials you get on movie DVDs. I mourn their passing more than ever and the fact that there doesn't appear to be anyone out there to take their place.

Ever wonder why Hollywood depictions of the Beats are laughable failures? HERE'S why.

Go now...

This book contains everything that Kerouac did best, his long rambling descriptions of the world around him, his fantasy insights into the loneliness of everyone he passed and watched. It in essence captures the beat generation even more artfully than ON THE ROAD, and works as a more philosophical piece. It also stands as a great companion to ON THE ROAD; it is book that really is a necessity to read if you are going to read ON THE ROAD because it gives a more detailed look at Neal Cassady, presents a more in depth vision of his philosophy of America and shows strongly his Whitmanian influences and ideals, while holding a heartbreaking sadness and loneliness for what he sees at the heart of all man kind. It reads like poetry and, though it's not to be rushed through, moves quickly and insightfully through the post war generations reality. Don't miss this beautiful reading experience! Pick up VISIONS OF CODY right away! You won't be sorry! Another novel I recommend, an Amazon quick-pick, is THE LOSERS CLUB by Richard Perez

Kerouac's best book, no doubt about. As Ginsberg says in the intro, it's an elegy for a fallen America that no longer exists, especially today, an America where innocence and kindness and joy has been replaced by paranoia and selfishness, with Kerouac using Cody as a symbol of all that is good and lost in America. For this reason it's probably the most pertinent of Kerouac's books for the modern era. Not only that, but it contains the most personal and heartbreaking prose Kerouac ever wrote, sentences filled with love for his fellow man ("I'm writing this book because we're all going to die") and the pain he saw at what was happening to his country ("America is what laid on Cody's soul the onus and the stigma - that in the form of a big plainclothesman beat the s//t out of him till he talked about something that isn't even important anymore - it's where cody learned that people arent good, they want to be bad - and nobody cares but the heart in the middle of the United States that will reappear when the salesmen all die.") There are sentences like that throughout the book, just absoloutely beautiful heartfelt writing, plus little things such as Kerouac wondering whether a girl in a restaurant would like him, or what his dead father would think of him, small things from his day-to-day life that add up to a tapestry of love and compassion and longing. "I'm a fool, I loved the blue dawns over racetracks and made a bet Ioway was sweet like its name, my heart went out to lonely sounds in the misty springtime night of wild sweet America in her powers, I stood on sandpiles with an open soul... Goodbye, Cody. Adios, you who watched the sun go down, at the rail, by my side, smiling - Adios, King." If writing like that doesn't break your heart, looking at the way the world is run nowadays, then this book probably isn't for you. But if you mourn for a lost America, buy the book and find a soulmate - or a couple.

"What they want has already crumbled in a rubbish heap - they want banks." - Cody Pomeray.

Allan Ginsberg wrote in August 1972: "Some of Kerouac's writings of '52, particularly his Visions of Cody, are some of the most brilliant texts written about the psychedelic experience, especially the description of him and Neal Cassidy on Peyote." AND From October 26, 1974, Ginsberg writes of himself, which he learned from Kerouac: What I mean by "polish the mind," in that you actually do get an increasing awareness either through meditative or poetry which is another yoga, of the actual stuff, cita. And then it becomes a matter of being a very faithful secretary. You can't get everything, so you get as much as you can so you have something solid to work with. In other words, you're not doing something arbitrary, romantic, babble, bullsh*t, you're actually dealing with your mind stuff just like a painter's working with an actual landscape. Solid in the sense that it's real, it's objective, it isn't even your subjectivity any more, you're just objectively watching something move. So there's no long any question of egotism or self-expression or personal expression. All those theoretical things are like nonpracticing questions. But if you're actually practicing there's a real thing to work with, which is your thought-forms."

"Chogyam Trungpa's principle of "First thought, best thought." That was kerouac's basic principle for his spontaneous writing, for the same Buddhist reasons of practical inquiry into the operation of the mind. Both Kerouac and Trungpa realized, and teach, a very simple thing, which is that the first way that you flash on a thing is the unselfconscious, naked, real first-mind way, which is totally private and odd, eccentric to you, but is so direct that anybody can understand it."

At first, this book was way too muddled to be of much use for myself, not receiving much out of the book and feeling that I have invested way too much time for the read, but I think that's because I've been reading it as a novel like "On The Road," and this is more poetry or jazz style spontaneous prose. Actually, this book is from flashing mental thoughts that are suddenly inspired within the self. This book is not some preplanned novel and storyline and not at all the robotic, mechanical mindset of the propogandized America and therefore represents a breakthrough in American thinking, thinking for the autonomous self.

I think if this book were given the publisher to publish before "On The Road" they would have agreed here on such being garbled and overly Proustian in attempt of remembrance. However, to the person looking for poetry or verbal prose over a story, and in this we have a jazz type expression of bebop in words and that makes this book a major change from the herd mentality of the masses. Hey, this is the beat rhythmic language, not Melville or Dostoevsky, but Proust and Celine.

Now to be fair, there are some good descriptions and well written feelings through out the book, but not in volume. Now don't get me wrong, I'm a Beat Hipster I would like to think, a Nietzschian, a mystical, philosophical seeker into spiritual, psychedelic and karmic realms, but maybe not the existential, Benzedine type. This book is largely garbled ramblings?? Or is just too poetic for me? I can appreciate the long "bird" Parker-like jazz of the spontaneous sentence styles, the overly descriptive emphasis on observable flashes of insight, but this story has no story line, ok-it's poetry or electic prose. So it's verbal dynamics in avant garde, not a novel then, and I guess I'm failing to fully appreciate it.

When Kerouac gets Celine-ian he works very well, but when he enters his Proustian attempt at daily observations, he becomes cloudy in tangent ramblings of private memories, non-relating to his current observations that are over detailed and nonsensical in the first place. His dope-riddled conversations and past remembrances enter back doorways in winding pathways of the red neon lights.

Now Ginsberg's introduction to the book, that I found both enjoyable and very understandable. Allen Ginsberg in a November 26th 1968 interview, from the book, Spontaneous Mind, page 132, writes on Robert Creeley and Kerouac's style of writing:

"Creeley was talking about how his writing was determined by the typewriter, neurasthenias of his habit; mine is determined by the physical circumstances of writing, i.e., literally that. And I got that actually from Kerouac, who was that simple and straight about it. If he had a short notebook he wrote little ditties and if he had a long . . . a big typewriter page, he wrote big long sentences like Proust."

I think this agrees with Visions of Cody, in consisting of either short "ditties" or "long sentences like Proust," all depending on the writing pad Kerouac was using at the time of writing. To me this makes a whole lot of sense in the arbitrary, elusive and haphazard style of this book.

What appears to me as the Kerouac trademark: a jazz styled prose of spontaneous expression from the "real," non-conditioned, non-image-to-portray self, an existential life of despair in fast paced living with the rush of jazz, drink, sex, travel, under the literary and scholarly ideals of avant garde sophistication, adventure, desires, seeking new discoveries, walking places one never has been before, risk taking and traveling, all so under this empty void of utter lonely existence, devoid of substantial meanings of foundational holds and securities, walking in the desert not knowing when water will appear and if it does, if this water will sustain life or poison it. So there's this emptiness, this sadness of it all in the modern man and woman, both subterranean and beatnik.

Remember-able observances in my mind: Kerouac's staring up at a man in an apartment building watching and writing and suddenly the light goes off! He saw him!; a description of a church that failed all gothic tests into the modern brown brick suburban model of tackiness with the stupidest shrubbery to boot; Cody's (Cassidy's) hobo father walking the train tracks looking for a fix; Cody's pool hustling and challenged football playing from a jump out of the car, left on the side of the road.

This is a must read for any beat fan since its Neal Cassady in his own words. Good family background and thorough childhood description. The other writings were more interesting to me personally wanting to hear more about the second third. I dont know, this review [stinks].

A few chosen people are meant to be artists. Of the artists, there are painters: others sculptors, musicians, poets or writers. For some, like Neal Cassady, their medium was Being.

Although a muse for the likes of Ginsberg, Kerouac, and Ferlingetti, and in many ways the adrenaline to the Beat Generation, Cassady was not a writer. Writing wasn't Neal's gig. Perhaps the pen was too slow for him; the medium just couldn't convey his essence. Rather Neal was a live show. It seems cruel to find him trapped on paper - like watching a tiger at the zoo, the wild drained off through those all confining bars.

The first few chapters of The First Third are slow and seem forced. However, the vibe changes drastically once Neal's family tree is throughly discussed. It's as if Cassady has quit the pretentious wordplay and dictated thoughts to paper, which give the remainder of the book a much more genuine feel.

The most enlightening segment of the book is the select correspondence between Neal, Jack Kerouac, Ken Kesey and others. It provides an insight into Neal that is raw, unedited and seems a much more accurate description than Cassady's own attempt at biography.

This book is great if you truly want to get into the mind of the fastest man on the planet. just like neal who could jump around from one topic to the other in mid-sentence, that is exactly the way he writes the book. Don't confuse neal with jack, because neal is to fast to sit down and read in one setting. And the letter at the end make for some good and funny reading. If you truly love the beats and want to see what the heartbeat is really all about, check this book out.

The Beat-Ups had an unrealistic romantic notion of the heartland and the sticks. They slummed their way through America and insisted that everyone else share their own infantilism, incredulity and narcissism. Bukowski, rather, tells it like it is without any literary pretensions and pleading for understanding. On the Road and other such stuff is useful as a historical document of pre-interstate road travel, and not much else.

Beat-Ups should grow up, get a job and pay the rent.

I heartily advise you all to read Ham on Rye and Post Office. This will give you an insight into real America.

The First Third is a far cry from being one of the best books that I have read. However, if you are a fan of Jack Kerouac, as I am, this book is a must read. In reading this book you get an understanding of who neal thought that he was, and how he got that way. This book is essential if you want a more complete understanding of Kerouac's On the Road. The fashion in which this book is written borows much style from Cassidy's compaions, consisting of some of the greatest minds of twentieth century literature.

I recently bought this book as a present for my daughter
to read and that prompted me to fish out my old road worn
copy which I carried around religiously during the days her
mother and I bummed around the western US & Mexico.
Kerouac always had the ability to spiritualize the
experience for me. This book exemplifies his respect
and admiration for those individuals who have forsworn the
luxuries of a normal life for the intrisically demanding
rigors of the spiritual quest. Rereading this book had
me aching to be back on the road once again. Want to do
Mexico again, Angela?

Kerouac's "Lonesome Traveler" (1960)is a collection of eight travel essays, several of which had been published earlier. Kerouac offers insights into the collection in his introduction. He states that he "always considered writing my duty on earth. Also the preachment of universal kindness, which hysterical critics have failed to notice beneath frenetic activity of my true-story novels about the 'beat'generation. -- Am actually not 'beat' but strange solitary crazy Catholic mystic." The essays in "Lonesome Traveler" support Kerouac's comments about his work, which has frequently been misinterpreted or sensationalized. The subject of the collection Kerouac aptly describes as "railroad work, sea work, mysticism, mountain work, lasciviousness, solepsism, self-indulgence, bullfights, drugs, churches, art museums, streets of cities, a mishmosh of life as lived by an independent educated penniless rake going nowhere."

I read much of this book sitting alone in a park on a Saturday afternoon, and it was a fitting companion to my own reflections. There is an intimacy of tone in Kerouac's book that made me feel at times that I was with him and sharing his experiences. Kerouac's spontaneous prose, with its long, strangly, and rhhythmic sentences is an erratic instrument indeed. But when it works, it is moving.

There is a continuity in these essays as Kerouac takes his reader back and forth across the United States, to Mexico, and to North Africa and Europe. Kerouac's vision tends to be highly particularized and specific. He is at his best in describing a lonely room in a San Francisco apartment, a night walk on a pier awaiting a ship, and evening's drinking with a friend and, especially, the sights and places of 'beat' New York City. Many of the scenes in the book show Kerouac sedentary -- in a cheap room or in a fire lookout on Desolation Peak -- while others show a fascination with travel, with ships and the sea and even more with railroads.

The first essay "Piers of the Homeless Night" shows Kerouac wandering on a dock in San Pedro in what becomes a failed effort at securing employment on a ship. "Mexico Fellaheen" describes the trip to Mexico he took immediately thereafter, with scenes in a drug den, a bullfight, and a church. "The Railroad Earth" is a lengthy chapter in which Kerouac details his experience working as a brakeman, and how "railroading gets in yr blood", as a character says at the end. In "Slobs of the Kitchen Sea" Kerouac describes his experience working on a ship -- before he gets fired. "New York Scenes" includes the finest writing in the collection, as Kerouac takes his reader on an intimate tour of the New York City he clearly knows and loves. "Alone on a Mountaintop" is a reflective chapter about the summer Kerouac spent as a watchman on Desolation Peak. The "Big Trip to Europe" includes William Burroughs as a character and describes Kerouac's experiences in Tangiers, with women, in Paris, with art museums, and in England, with hostile police. The final essay, "The Vanishing American Hobo" is a nostalgic tribute to those wanderers, such as Kerouac himself, who once graced the American and the world landscape.

Besides the descriptive writing, there is a sense of mystical pantheism in this book. Kerouac's thought is notoriously difficult to describe. The book is replete with religious metaphor, both Buddhist and Christian. For all the vagaries of his life, Kerouac the writer has something to teach. The book teaches of the need to accept and love one's experiences and to let go --- expanding upon what Kerouac himself says in his introduction. Life is to be loved and cherished, regardless of one's circumstances.

Thus, at the end of "Mexico Fellaheen", following a visit to a church, Kerouac observes: "I bow to all this, kneel at my pew entryway, and go out, taking one last look at St. Antoine de Padue (St. Anthony) Santo Antonio de Padua. -- Everything is perfect on the street again, the world is permeated with roses of happiness all the time, but none of us know it. The happiness consists in realizing that it is all a great strange dream."

Kerouac offers a great deal of reflection in the essay "Alone on a Mountaintop." Sitting in the fire observation tower, he comes to realize that "no matter where I am, whether in a little room full of thought, or in this endless universe of stars and mountains, it's all in my mind. There's no need for solitude. So love life for what it is, and form no preconceptions whatever in your mind." As he leaves his summer in the fire tower, Kerouac states that he "turned and blessed Desolation Peak and the little pagoda on top and thanked them for the shelter and the lesson I'd been taught."

There is much in journeying with Kerouac in this book that can inspire still.

Robin Friedman

This book is a mixed bag. Unlike "Desolation Angels," where the true Kerouac mixes it up with the bop prosodist to the point where you really need to read all of it, "Lonesome Traveler" has distinct bop prosodist chapters and distinct, what I consider to be, great writing sections. I'd like to go into why I don't like bop prosody, but then the review might disappear. (The bop prosodist police.) Let's just say that Kerouac's great writing is very fluid and lucid, unlike something else we won't talk, and know nothing, about.

The first chapter has a Mickey Spillane quality about it and the narrator's guru has a thugish charm that is lacking in Neal Cassidy and Gary Snyder. Other than that, I can't remember anything about it, which is good.

The second chapter on Mexico is also a winner, though, if you can't handle cruelty to animals, please don't read the section on the bull fight, as Kerouac's journalistic virtuosity is much too ruthlessly evocative here for soft stomachs. The Aztecs are supposed to be the bad guys, ripping out hearts and whatnot. Then the civilized Spaniards come along with Christianity and mariachi bands and everything is supposed to be bueno... except for this thing called the bull fight. Kerouac doesn't make subtle points like Conrad does regarding civilized vs. uncivilized man. But, he scares the pants off you in ways that Conrad doesn't (can't?).

The long bop prosodist chapters on the railroad experience do nothing for me, either stylistically or thematically, so I didn't read much of them. Basically, he's drunk and talking bop gibberish to a bunch of brakemen and winos, except of course for the subtleties I'm obviously missing. I'll live without them. (I k-now no-th-in-g.)

Back to the good stuff. The chapters on Desolation Peak, New York and Europe are all excellent and the latter gives you, in Kerouac's discussion of France, a glimpse of two noteworthy qualities: he was a Renaissance man, who knew his art and literature just enough to avoid being overbearing, and he was blunt, as in his observation that the French, with whom he closely identifies, are "dishonest." The more I read about him, the more he comes off as part of the problem. But, what might his commentary be on the current state of affairs. His view of Obama? Unprintable. But, then I would need to throw him off the mountain with the rest of the Beat schnooks. His insights don't jive with much of his personality and if any of the Beats was queer it was him. He certainly has one foot in the Pont-Aven school and I can see him getting all worked up about Gauguin. But, then he smells Chinese food and it's all over. The contradiction with Kerouac is that his milieu required him to stay urban in the superficial American sense of the word, while his nature called for more of the 19th century salon alliances.

The last chapter on the demise of the hobo speaks to this point: no whole grain, New Age idea of renewable life would have saved Kerouac from the horror of his apple pie/benezedrine non-renewable nightmare. From rucksacks to self-poisoning in less than 10 years: straight lines, not circles. He's no Herbert Huncke, but he set a certain standard that too many other Ricky Nelsons followed into the bucket. He is the quintissential American, a hairy icon whose talent draws heavily on an incresingly superficial, addicted clientele, who follow him around like blind pigeons. Now it's Hollywood actors: their great talent in no way evident to me but fully eulogized by other great actors, who melodramatically mourn their sudden demises. To quote a fellow Arizonan, Edward Abbey, "the party's over [boys]." Yes, Eddy, but they have no where else to go.

If I could read only two Kerouac books, and I haven't read them all by any means, this one and "Desolation Angels" would fit the bill. "The Dharma Bums" is also worth reading, but, if the anachronisms aren't regularly hitting you in the noggen, then maybe you're prime material for some of his more schizo-affective, down-in-the-dirt stuff, of which there seems to be volumes. He's no Jack Kennedy and he's no Wordsworth, but where would we be without him?

The title above gives a fair summary of Kerouac's writing style. He writes, I assume, phonetically like those around him during his transient life. This short book covers each of his brief stints during the 1950s as he tries on different impoverished lifestyles. These are: transient bum, Mexican indian pyote smoker, railroad worker, merchant marine, New York beatnik, forest ranger, and backpacking in Europe.

Kerouac writes descriptively, often using a continuous stream of thought in that same phonetic train as this review's title. So, it can be hard to read at times. But if you have a sense of adventure, then it is certainly engaging. I presume he grew up in a fairly protected environment during the Great Depression and was seized with a growing fascination in the life of America's impoverished masses since that time. So, after years of schooling he finally decided to try that life on for himself.

All in all, it's a unique book well worth reading. His phonetic writing style is especially prevalent in a couple of the first few chapters of the book. I sometimes found it difficult to read, but the remaining text is quite enjoyable.

On the Road instantly became my favorite book after reading it a short time ago, and of course it prompted me to read more of Kerouac in hopes of attaining that same free spirted prose he is known for. Lonesome Traveler delivers a much different experience to the reader than does On the Road, but is equally as moving. The flow of this book can be hard to follow at first, but I found the more I read, the more I began to "be" Kerouac. Many times I found myself reading a passage over and over again in an attempt to completely and fully understand the feelings and emotions Kerouac is trying to convey. The end result is a longer read than the number of pages may suggest, but a priceless experience that is rarely found in modern literature.

I enjoyed this book immensely. A behind the scenes view of what life was really like for your favorite Beat personas. The book was easy to read and hard to put down.

As great as the Beat fiction is, and life-changing as On the Road is, we get too caught up with the fictitive personas of the Beats. It's nice to see the side of Kerouac, Cassady, and Ginsberg that didn't make it into the novels. I'm sure Carolyn's viewpoint is skewed a little, but so is what we read in On the Road. Between her work and their work we can get a picture of what they were like, not as legends, but as men.

There are times when Carolyn bogs down with too much detail, or too much whining, or patches that just aren't great writing, but all in all it is a good biography, autobiography, and novel.

If you want to know more, here is a good place to start, along with these books, though you probably have read them by now: Kerouac's On the Road and The Dharma Bums; Cassady's The First Third; Perry and Babb's On the Bus; Ginsberg's Howl

It was interesting hearing about Kerouac & Cassady
from a woman's point of view, especially a woman who
was so intimately connected to the dynamic duo. She
dwelt on the negative ramifications a bit too much for
my taste, but then again, these have never been really
examined in much detail prior to this books release.
For those of you who have at least a passing interest
in the beats, I would recommend this book.

This book is all right, I must say that I enjoy the fact that Carolyn owns up to her own faults, such as her jealousy and such. I think that it is easy to judge her from 50 years down the line because so much has changed socially. She fell in love with Cassady at a time where women didn't just get up and leave their men if they were cheated on. Divorce was not as common as it is now. The women of the beat generation lived life on the edge of suburbanism. Most of them found themselves in the unusual and yet somehow liberating situation of being the primary breadwinner. I found Carolyn Cassady's biography to be an interesting account of an intelligent and talented woman who walked the line between her own more old fashioned sense of morality and the life Neal Cassady introduced her to. She mostly seemed to want his friends to go away. I think that he still would have been as wild if they did go away, he would have just found new friends. I don't blame her bitter attitude toward a lot of his friends though. It is a frustrating experience when someone's friends see only the party side of them and don't see what it does to the person's family.

Carolyn did, unfortunately, hang tight for a while to her belief that she could hold onto her husband. Hard to say if her version of their relationship is accurate or not. I do believe her account of what happened, but I also believe that he was a smooth talking guy who probably had similar conversations with his other two wives as well as all those other women. This obviously has to be a biased book, it involves the woman's marriage, I should not expect her to be able to look at things too objectively.

I guess the reason I call this book only "all right" is in part for selfish reasons (I like Neal Cassady, I like Allen Ginsberg, I like the Grateful Dead, I like Ken Kesey), the same things I appreciate about the book, such as her bitterness and jealousy, are the same things that kept me from fully enjoying it. The other reason I call this book merely "all right" is because Carolyn is not a writer. Joyce Johnson's memoir "Minor Characters" blows Cassady out of the water. While Cassady's life seems to have revolved around her husband, Johnson's somewhat brief affair with Kerouac is not her only claim to fame. She is an author in her own right and quite a good one. So Cassady's book reads more like a biography and Johnson's more like a novel. Which is all right. But still kept the book from being the sort of thing I would reread over and over.

And for the record, to respond to someone's questions about the author's facts - I don't believe Carolyn states that Kerouac died on Oct. 31, but rather that is when she found out about it. Also, he did not die on the 20th, but rather the 21st.

I read near-obsessively, and this is one of the few books from the past four years that I've started and not been able to finish.

When Carolyn Cassady isn't attempting to elicit readers' sympathy for her as the poor, neglected wife of beat luminary Neil Cassady, she's trying to claim that Neil's genius excuses said neglect. Ultimately, neither pity nor admiration for Carolyn is possible.

I still can't decide whether Carolyn Cassady is simply pathetic or simply trying to cash in on her husband's fame.

Let me starting by noting that this was the first time I've ever read this wonderful tome. You can't be around literature or even modern American culture without hearing the name Jack Kerouac, but I had never actually sat down and read this book.

It took me a few chapters to "get into it" in terms of the style. But after a while, I couldn't wait to get home from work and read a few more chapters, and savor the goodness. I LOVED the narrative, and the stream of consciousness style added to the prose. I've since read a bit on Kerouac and his style and his friends (Wikipedia is a good place to start), and this isn't the sloppy, lazy manifesto it is often made out to be in today's times. Kerouac knew exactly what he was doing, and it was beautiful. I'm not going to summarize the story, because you probably already know it, but I will say that I wept at the end because I was touched, and because I was truly sad to say good-bye to this book.

As others have clearly noted--there isn't much else "special" about the book in terms of it being an "Anniversary edition." There is NYT review included from when the book was published, and while a nice read, that is the only "extra" you get. The jacket cover is nice, and the hardcover looks like something you might hold on to as opposed to maybe a paperback. Beyond that, if you already have a hardcover version of this wonderful book, you won't be missing much by skipping this edition.

Kerouac's prose really buries itself into your subconscious, and when your friends wonder what the hell you are talking about, remind them of what you are reading. I'm sorry that my prose falls short in capturing the joy, the utter joy, I experienced when reading this book. If you have not read it yet, you could do much worse than this.

In commemoration of the fiftieth anniversary of its first printing, Viking Press has republished Jack Kerouac's seminal work in a new hardcover version. There is no question that his story still resonates because the writing is still ripe with human insight and attitudes that have changed little when it comes to seizing the day. The novel focuses on innocent Sal Paradise, who narrates the story, and his inspiration, a wild spirit he meets in New York named Dean Moriarty. As polar opposites, they share but one common bond, a pervasive feeling of desperation in a time when the Cold War produced a spiritual void and a sense of nihilism. Their response is to set out on the road and live life one precious moment at a time. Through Kerouac's stream-of-consciousness narrative, the two experience life in all its dimensions in all sorts of settings throughout the country, whether in sleepy towns, rural areas or big cities, bouncing from New York to Chicago to San Francisco to Los Angeles to Mexico and back again.

In the process, Sal and Dean meet some memorable characters along the way in places as diverse as a Virginia diner, a New York jazz nightclub and a Mexican border bordello. The jazz, poetry and drug experiences that Kerouac chronicles have a palpable feel about them as they represent how the characters dealt with their often desperate feelings about death, an ethos quite central to what the Beat Generation was all about back then. The prose can get quite maddening at times, but that is exactly Kerouac's point, the fact that life is not a carefully constructed story with a message. In fact, much of the book resulted from the author's scribblings in tiny notebooks he kept while traveling for a period of seven years. Even though there is a dated feeling in the portrayal of the American Dream specific to that period, the novel still haunts with Kerouac's imagery of people whose individual spirits either crushed them or left them still searching for greater meaning.

Jack Kerouac is a conservative. Yes, believe it. He is a conservative in the best sense of that word before it was corrupted by the mouths of partisan politicians.
One wag once classified "On The Road" as mere "typing" and I first judged it to be an amateurish travelogue. Then I recognized what Kerouac is doing -- trying to call America back to its better self; what America was before World War I; what it was before it became the cop of the world out to "prove something" (the supposed merits of gunboat social democracy). That's reason enough to rank "On The Road" a classic.
Only a person with the disposition of a child can enter the Kingdom of G-d, the Christian scriptures say. Kerouac's narrator Sal Paradise (the last name gives it away) is of the Kingdom. But he's no braggart or preacher. Sal quietly mourns that America has mostly ceased to be. His contrast of U.S. and Mexican police shows the depressing depths to which the "civilized" world's leading nation has sunk. Yet Paradise holds fast that "every moment of life is holy and precious." Interactions with Mexican Indians remind us that the Indians were the proud forerunners of Western man. One weeps today for American Indians who have traded their noble station for mawkish casino gambling entertainment pottage fouling the spiritual rivers of mankind.
Kerouac's post-World War II narrative reminds one of the Jazz Age rebellion (best chronicled by F. Scott Fitzgerald) that followed World War I. Jazz plays a large role in both rebellions. Kerouac is trying to call out the better (albeit imperfect) America in part through immersion in "bop" music. Charlie Parker's "Now's The Time" ought to be considered the lit motif/soundtrack of "On The Road." Parker's music and Kerouac's prose communicate urgency. Kerouac even positions Sal Paradise to be like Parker. The author describes Parker as a "cool" Kansas City alto sax player spurred on by "mad" Thelonius Monk and "even madder" Dizzy Gillespie. Road companions Carlo Marx (is Kerouac's flirting with communism?) and Dean Moriarity (the name "Dean" implies a teacher) play Monk and Gillespie to Paradise's Parker.
Kerouac shows his yearning for the old and better America through the search for Dean's father. These hopes would be shattered when the U.S. war machine plowed into Korea and Vietnam. Big government, operating as the dual-headed welfare/warfare state, continuing to grow and destroy, draining the country of its people and vitality. Fitzgerald saw the government and its political central bank crash the economy then get out by blaming freedom. A generation and two later, Kerouac and fellow "beats" would witness American smashing up non-threatening countries and skating away pointing fingers at communists in Russia and China.
Sal Paradise notes it covertly and almost dispassionately, telling us about "the snake" destined to consume the planet. Moreover, Sal's father is dead while Old Man Moriarity (metaphors for the better America) remains missing. Kerouac resigns himself yet with a faint hint of optimism.
"...Nobody, nobody knows what's going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old, I think of Dean Moriarity, I even think of Old Dean Moriarity, the father we never found, I think of Dean Moriarity."

After six months of reading Trollope (and loving it) this year, I realized it was time to put the Victorians behind me for a while and started checking out the New York Times book reviews. Coincidentally, the 50th anniversary of "On the Road" came to my attention. It seemed like gross oversight to have lived in America for 50 years and not know anything of Kerouac.

"On the Road" seems like a young man's book (both for the writer and the reader). I wish I'd come to Kerouac 30 years earlier, at which time I was living in Manhattan among a circle of friends all taking ourselves way too seriously. For a susceptible young mind, reading it might encourage indulgence in more youthful high-spirited madness and irresponsible experience; perhaps that's healthy, perhaps not, but it would create memories. "On the Road" is a great promotion for Life and Experience (and less brooding).

However, that said, reading the book (as a man in his fifth decade), I appreciated the book without finding it a consistently enjoyable or satisfying experience. Within the first hundred pages, I became impatient with the sameness of all the events of the book and its characters. I stayed with the book out of curiosity and hope, trusting that there would be development or growth of either character or plot.

But, reading of the characters' somewhat redundant frenetic buzzings here and there, the picture that often came to mind was that of a flea circus: all frenzied mindless activity without purpose or pattern ("sound and fury signifying nothing").

I suspect that, if one read only the first 50 pages and the last 50, little of the experience of reading the book would be lost, and this is hardly a recommendation for a book. The exception would be the loss of some fine passages of prose poetry. If one stops focusing on plot and development, there can be satisfaction to be had from savoring the descriptive writing.

Is it possible to care about a book without caring about the characters? I'd go so far as to say that there were no real characters. Dean is a speech pattern, a distinctive highly-energized speech pattern, but he seems little more. Reading Sal's frequent references to Dean's madness, I wondered if Sal meant that Dean was literally mad and if the book's culmination might be his total mental dissolution. But, at the end, Dean was still sweating and rubbing his belly and babbling as in the first chapter. Sal the observer, himself seems a bottomless vessel; more and more may be poured into him, but he never fills and nothing of substance pours back out. And the rest of the characters are largely interchangeable.

In the end, I think it's easy to esteem "On the Road" as a kick in the butt of literature, and as a new-sounding (for the time) and distinctive voice. But I'm not driven to seek out more.

Everything old is new again!

I remember reading Jack Kerouac immortal novel of a road trip when I was in high school. About ten years later, I heard a Rhino record collection of Kerouac reading abridged cuts from his novel with Steve Allen (yes, author/actor/former Tonight show host) playing piano in the background. About five years later, Durkin Hayes audio had David (Kung Fu) Carradine reading an abridged version of the novel. About five years ago, Caedmon audio had Matt Dillon read an unabridged version of Road. Now Will Patton has stepped up to the audio plate, orating an unabridged recording of Road

Patton brings a southern charm to his narration of this classic American novel of an anatomy of a road trip early 1950's. This audio capture the beatnik era in the reading. Patton's vocal shading is amazing to listen to.He seem to capture the era and the characters with a quick change in his voice or tone

As I have said, I have other versions before, but this seem to be a verbal time capsule of an era gone by.

For those who have not read the book, this audio will be a perfect chance to listen to great literature.

Bennet Pomerantz AUDIOWORLD