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I have just finished reading Jack Kerouac's "On the Road." I must say I feel I've been conned, but I shouldn't be surprised.
I had heard a lot about Kerouac. He is held up as the epitome of The Beat Generation writers. References are made. Songs are written about him. So I wanted to read the Kerouac novel that spoke to a generation of Americans.
But it's a con. Kerouac's characters are con-men. They are pretenders. Pretending they are doing a lot. Pretending they are thinking deep. Pretending they've got it hard while living soaking money off other people and living off government checks. They throw up words like chaff trying to distract from cons and add glitter to their plain thoughts.
The characters are your basic wholly self centered users. They use deep thoughts or living the life to justify having no concern or respect for anyone but themselves. Since all the characters are male, this comes off misogynistic as hell. I don't think it actually is. They'll use anybody any way they can, since it's based in heterosexual culture, they just want to use the women in one additional way.
Kerouac's a con too. He pretends he's being deep. He's pretending to show you what it's like to be strung out on the road. He's pretending to illustrate the hard life. But like one of his characters saying, "oh, man, if I could tell you everything I've gone through on this trip," after a three day trek from New York to Denver, Mr. Kerouac is telling you he's got a lot more there than he actually delivers.
There is a character in "It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad world" who I could never really stand watching. I never understood why the character was in such a otherwise funny movie before. It's Mrs. Marcus' son, Sylvester, played by Dick Shawn. Now I understand the comedy of that farce. That character was a summary in a few scenes of Mr. Kerouac and his characters mixed with part beach bum to make it more palatable.
Kerouac's constructions are simple and straightforward except when he decides to string them all together into a great never ending quest for the period which he uses to represent the overwhelming, overarching, mumbo jumbo we're strung out and experiencing the mystical oneness of being beat. Coupled with his first person removed, "I did this. then I did that.", it makes a story that should inherently have life sound like a third grade kid's report of what I did on summer vacation.
I've done trips across the incredible land that Kerouac tries to write about. I've broken down with no money, in the rain, in Kentucky, in the middle of the night, and had to beg somebody's father to send a wire for enough cash to get the car out of hock. I know what it's like to smell of the road. And to me Mr. Kerouac smells like a poseur.
If you're looking for a mind expanding experience, don't pick up this book. Go out and see any one of the places along the road in America. You'll get more out of that than Mr. Kerouac can begin to relate.
I had heard a lot about Kerouac. He is held up as the epitome of The Beat Generation writers. References are made. Songs are written about him. So I wanted to read the Kerouac novel that spoke to a generation of Americans.
But it's a con. Kerouac's characters are con-men. They are pretenders. Pretending they are doing a lot. Pretending they are thinking deep. Pretending they've got it hard while living soaking money off other people and living off government checks. They throw up words like chaff trying to distract from cons and add glitter to their plain thoughts.
The characters are your basic wholly self centered users. They use deep thoughts or living the life to justify having no concern or respect for anyone but themselves. Since all the characters are male, this comes off misogynistic as hell. I don't think it actually is. They'll use anybody any way they can, since it's based in heterosexual culture, they just want to use the women in one additional way.
Kerouac's a con too. He pretends he's being deep. He's pretending to show you what it's like to be strung out on the road. He's pretending to illustrate the hard life. But like one of his characters saying, "oh, man, if I could tell you everything I've gone through on this trip," after a three day trek from New York to Denver, Mr. Kerouac is telling you he's got a lot more there than he actually delivers.
There is a character in "It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad world" who I could never really stand watching. I never understood why the character was in such a otherwise funny movie before. It's Mrs. Marcus' son, Sylvester, played by Dick Shawn. Now I understand the comedy of that farce. That character was a summary in a few scenes of Mr. Kerouac and his characters mixed with part beach bum to make it more palatable.
Kerouac's constructions are simple and straightforward except when he decides to string them all together into a great never ending quest for the period which he uses to represent the overwhelming, overarching, mumbo jumbo we're strung out and experiencing the mystical oneness of being beat. Coupled with his first person removed, "I did this. then I did that.", it makes a story that should inherently have life sound like a third grade kid's report of what I did on summer vacation.
I've done trips across the incredible land that Kerouac tries to write about. I've broken down with no money, in the rain, in Kentucky, in the middle of the night, and had to beg somebody's father to send a wire for enough cash to get the car out of hock. I know what it's like to smell of the road. And to me Mr. Kerouac smells like a poseur.
If you're looking for a mind expanding experience, don't pick up this book. Go out and see any one of the places along the road in America. You'll get more out of that than Mr. Kerouac can begin to relate.