Kerouac's defining work, often described as "a thinly veiled autobiography," is one of those "love-it-or-hate-it" works of literature; there doesn't seem to be much in between. I'm going out of a limb here, and, at the risk of being non-committal, I'm giving it a three-star rating. I think that it does definitely have something to offer, as it's thoroughly a product of its time, so I recommend reading it for that particular purpose, as a primary source that offers insight into the mentality (specifically the young, middle-class white male one) of the period, but that's about all I can say, honestly.
That said, I didn't care much for it, generally: there are definitely some parts worth reading, but it is thoroughly, in a word, well, BORING. I'm coming off a string of Kurt Vonnegut novels, so this was definitely a let-down. I get that one has to read between the lines a fair deal, because it's "arty" and "edgy," and cutting edge, and all the things that a work of the 1950s was supposed to be, but, it's boring; there it is. Aside from some marvelous quotes, and there definitely are some moments of luminous, poetic insight, the prose makes it sound like a sixth-grader's travel journal they're forced to write, or, alternatively, someone playing chopsticks on an out-of-tune piano;. The writing's that bad, so much so that it's difficult to get through, as the content just doesn't hold the reader's attention. You have to keep really looking for things that make it worthwhile, but there are generally few to be found.
A word on the "beat" generation everyone keeps talking about: is "beat" short for "deadbeat?" It should be. The terms refers specifically to a postwar literary movement in the 1950s, a defining period in American history, to be sure. It predated the Free Love movement of the 1960s, when hippies traversed the country, living on the road and out of cars, but it was certainly the precursor, setting the stage and tone for what was to come in the succeeding decade. Creeping shadows of the explosive counterculture revolution of the 60s could already be seen in the forays of the so-called "Beat Generation," including a rejection of traditional core values such as marriage, religion, monogamy and fidelity in favor of the exploration of alternative spiritual ideologies such as Native American and Eastern religions and ideologies, sexual liberation and drug use, including psychedelic drugs. Other literary works of the period include Ginsberg's "Howl" and William S. Burrough's "Naked Lunch," both of which were subjected to "obscenity trials."
The novel is essentially a series of misadventures involving the main character, "Sal Paradise," and his ne'er-do-well cohort of fellow adolescent-minded orbiters - clearly, I'm not impressed with any of them. Some readers may envy their "freedom," the ability to travel from place to place, seeing the splendors of America, working only when they must, but it's difficult to get beyond the devastation left in their wake, including a string of jilted spouses, bastard children and broken promises. They're the worst, not the best, of "man," in my opinion: self-centered, egotistical, irresponsible, lazy narcissists whose desire to live in the moment serves only themselves, to the detriment of all those around them, friends and family alike. They're consummate parasites, roving like ticks or mosquitoes from host to host, living off the charity and generosity of others, whom they occasionally victimize when they shoplift or steal from hardworking people they encounter. Travel is one of my great loves, and one of my greatest dreams is to travel the country, or, better yet, the world, encumbered by little more than a backpack, camera and travel journal, but I wouldn't live off of others to do it. The exploits of Sal and his merry band of miscreants are not ones to be emulated, or admired.
------------Notable Passages------------
The 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...
Boys and girls in America have such a sad time together; sophistication demands that they submit to sex immediately without proper preliminary talk. Not courting talk-real straight talk about souls, for life is holy and every moment is precious.
Something, someone, some spirit was pursuing all of us across the desert of life and was bound to catch us before we reached heaven. Naturally, now that I look back on it, this is only death: death will overtake us before heaven. The one thing that we yearn for in our living days, that makes us sigh and groan and undergo sweet nauseas of all kinds, is the remembrance of some lost bliss that was probably experienced in the womb and can only be reproduced (though we hate to admit it) in death. But who wants to die?
[She] would never understand me because I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.
What is that feeling when you're driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks disappearing? It's the too-huge world vaulting us, and it's good-by. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.
The waves are Chinese, but the earth is an Indian thing. As essential as rocks in the desert they are in the descent of "history." And they knew this when we passed, ostensibly self-important moneybag Americans on a lark in their land; they knew who was the father and who was the son of antique life on earth, and made no comment. For when destruction comes to the world of "history" and the apocalypse of the Fellahin returns once more as so many times before, people will still stare with the same eyes from the caves of Mexico as well as from the caves of Bali, where it all began and where Adam was suckled and taught to know.
That said, I didn't care much for it, generally: there are definitely some parts worth reading, but it is thoroughly, in a word, well, BORING. I'm coming off a string of Kurt Vonnegut novels, so this was definitely a let-down. I get that one has to read between the lines a fair deal, because it's "arty" and "edgy," and cutting edge, and all the things that a work of the 1950s was supposed to be, but, it's boring; there it is. Aside from some marvelous quotes, and there definitely are some moments of luminous, poetic insight, the prose makes it sound like a sixth-grader's travel journal they're forced to write, or, alternatively, someone playing chopsticks on an out-of-tune piano;. The writing's that bad, so much so that it's difficult to get through, as the content just doesn't hold the reader's attention. You have to keep really looking for things that make it worthwhile, but there are generally few to be found.
A word on the "beat" generation everyone keeps talking about: is "beat" short for "deadbeat?" It should be. The terms refers specifically to a postwar literary movement in the 1950s, a defining period in American history, to be sure. It predated the Free Love movement of the 1960s, when hippies traversed the country, living on the road and out of cars, but it was certainly the precursor, setting the stage and tone for what was to come in the succeeding decade. Creeping shadows of the explosive counterculture revolution of the 60s could already be seen in the forays of the so-called "Beat Generation," including a rejection of traditional core values such as marriage, religion, monogamy and fidelity in favor of the exploration of alternative spiritual ideologies such as Native American and Eastern religions and ideologies, sexual liberation and drug use, including psychedelic drugs. Other literary works of the period include Ginsberg's "Howl" and William S. Burrough's "Naked Lunch," both of which were subjected to "obscenity trials."
The novel is essentially a series of misadventures involving the main character, "Sal Paradise," and his ne'er-do-well cohort of fellow adolescent-minded orbiters - clearly, I'm not impressed with any of them. Some readers may envy their "freedom," the ability to travel from place to place, seeing the splendors of America, working only when they must, but it's difficult to get beyond the devastation left in their wake, including a string of jilted spouses, bastard children and broken promises. They're the worst, not the best, of "man," in my opinion: self-centered, egotistical, irresponsible, lazy narcissists whose desire to live in the moment serves only themselves, to the detriment of all those around them, friends and family alike. They're consummate parasites, roving like ticks or mosquitoes from host to host, living off the charity and generosity of others, whom they occasionally victimize when they shoplift or steal from hardworking people they encounter. Travel is one of my great loves, and one of my greatest dreams is to travel the country, or, better yet, the world, encumbered by little more than a backpack, camera and travel journal, but I wouldn't live off of others to do it. The exploits of Sal and his merry band of miscreants are not ones to be emulated, or admired.
------------Notable Passages------------
The 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...
Boys and girls in America have such a sad time together; sophistication demands that they submit to sex immediately without proper preliminary talk. Not courting talk-real straight talk about souls, for life is holy and every moment is precious.
Something, someone, some spirit was pursuing all of us across the desert of life and was bound to catch us before we reached heaven. Naturally, now that I look back on it, this is only death: death will overtake us before heaven. The one thing that we yearn for in our living days, that makes us sigh and groan and undergo sweet nauseas of all kinds, is the remembrance of some lost bliss that was probably experienced in the womb and can only be reproduced (though we hate to admit it) in death. But who wants to die?
[She] would never understand me because I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.
What is that feeling when you're driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks disappearing? It's the too-huge world vaulting us, and it's good-by. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.
The waves are Chinese, but the earth is an Indian thing. As essential as rocks in the desert they are in the descent of "history." And they knew this when we passed, ostensibly self-important moneybag Americans on a lark in their land; they knew who was the father and who was the son of antique life on earth, and made no comment. For when destruction comes to the world of "history" and the apocalypse of the Fellahin returns once more as so many times before, people will still stare with the same eyes from the caves of Mexico as well as from the caves of Bali, where it all began and where Adam was suckled and taught to know.
