Not sure where in my travels I picked this book up, but I think it was in Copenhagen. I had heard quite a few good things about it and it seemed like a really great book to take traveling around Europe with me, so I picked it up from a hostel. Not sure where I left it but I hope whomever is reading it now is enjoying the novel as much as I did and is not deterred from my marginalia (something unheard of for me, generally).This book started off quite slowly. Kerouac was off on one of his mad adventures and I was observing him from afar. At some point, EVERYTHING changed. I began to travel WITH Kerouac and it was a madly satisfying ride. I remember him going back and forth between Denver and somewhere in California, constantly picking up companions and getting drunk, doing drugs, having sex (consensual, with prostitutes, etc) and generally getting into all sorts of trouble. But - he and his friends were LIVING! At the end, Kerouac and his buddy Neal Cassady make it down to Mexico to experience a culture completely different than their normal scene in the United States and they're completely excited. If I recall correctly, the work ends abruptly there...
I should mention at this point that I read 'The Original Scroll' version, not knowing the differences between this publication and others. The version I read kept the original names of the characters and kept the explicit material that was cut out of the standard publication in 1957. I believe that it was edited quite a bit less than the original publication, and perhaps this led to some of the slowness at the beginning of the work. That said, I would rather get as close to the original unedited journey as possible, and I remember FEELING very strongly about the journey the further I got into it.
Kerouac is a master of description, and his insight into his friend Neal Cassady was something to behold. I'm going to cut and paste a few of my favourite Kerouac descriptions - which are also present in the quotes below in this post. Here is a description of Allen Anson, to start:
“He had more books than I’ve ever seen in all my life… two libraries, two rooms loaded from floor to ceiling around all four walls, and such books as ‘The Explanation of the Apocalypse’ in ten volumes. He played Verdi operas and pantomimed them in his pajamas with the great rip down the back. He didn’t give a damn about anything. He is a great scholar who goes reeling down the NY waterfront with original 14th century musical manuscripts under his arm, shouting. He crawls like a great spider through the streets. His excitement blew out of his eyes in great stabs of fiendish light. He rolled his neck in spastic ecstasy. He lisped, he writhed, he flopped, he moaned, he howled, he fell back in despair. He could hardly get a word out he was so excited with life.” 228...and then of Bill Burroughs...
“It would take all night to tell about Bill Burroughs; let’s just say now, he was a teacher, and had every right to teach because he learned all the time; and the things he learned were the facts of life, not out of necessity but because he wanted to. He dragged his long thin body around the entire US and most of Europe and No. Africa in his time only to see what was going on; he married a German countess in Yugoslavia to get her away from the Nazis in the Thirties; there are pictures of him with big cocaine Berlin gangs with wild hair leaning on one another; there are other pictures of him in a Panama hat surveying the streets of Algiers in Morocco. He never saw the German countess again. He was an exterminator in Chicago, a bartender in New York, a summons server in Newark. In Paris he sat at café tables watching the sullen French faces go by. In Athens he looked out of his hotel window at what he called the ugliest people in the world. In Instanbul he threaded his way through crowds of opium addicts and rug sellers, looking for the facts. In English hotels he read Spengler and the Marquis de Sade. In Chicago he planned to hold up a Turkish bath, hesitated just two minutes too long for a drink, and wound up with two dollars and had to make a run for it. He did all these things merely for the experience. He was a dawdler of the oldfashioned European school somewhat along the lines of Stefan Sweig, the young Thomas Mann, and Ivan Karamazov.” 244-245...and then, of course, of Neal Cassady...
“Suddenly I had a vision of Neal, a burning shuddering frightful Angel palpitating towards me across the road, approaching like a cloud, with enormous speed, pursuing me like the Shrouded Stranger on the plain, bearing down on me. I saw his huge face over the plains with the mad bony purpose and the gleaming eyes; I saw his wings; I saw his old jalopy chariot with thousands of sparking flames shooting out from it; I saw the path it burned over the road; it even made its own road and went over the corn, through cities, destroying bridges, drying rivers. It came like wrath to the West. I knew Neal had gone mad again.”360
These character descriptions floored me; it's been quite some time since I came upon anything this good and besides the feeling of adventure, shunning societal conventions and the concept on what it means to really LIVE, this is what stood out the most for me. There were many points where I felt connected and disconnected with Kerouac. He seemed to be a great observer of human nature and a great scribe of the human condition, but he seemed to be something of a tremendous jack-ass as well... it made me feel uncertain if I should root for him or not. That said, I understood his plight. Kerouac was somehow able to put how I feel about people into a condensed, beautiful passage... my favourite quote of the novel, which I found in a slightly edited version tattooed on some courageous soul - which I have added above to this post.
“…the only people that interest me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that that never yawn or say a commonplace thing.. but burn, burn, burn like roman candles across the night.” 113It's been many months since I read this work, and I will read it again - most likely in the edited 1957 published version, in an effort to compare the two works. For now, my heart lies with the scroll... an uncensored version of a travel epic that is guaranteed to stand the test of time.
QUOTATIONS:
“…the only people that interest me are the mad ones, the
ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, desirous of everything at the same time,
the ones that that never yawn or say a commonplace thing.. but burn, burn, burn
like roman candles across the night.” 113
“…most of the time we were alone and mixing up our souls
ever more and ever more till it would be terribly hard to say goodbye.” 191
“We turned at a dozen paces, for love is a duel…” 201
“’I want to marry a girl’ I told them ‘so I can rest my soul
with her till we both get old.’” 218
“My mother once said the world would never find peace until
men fell at their woman’s feet and asked for forgiveness. This is true.” 223
Explanation of Allen Anson:
“He had more books than I’ve ever seen in all my life… two
libraries, two rooms loaded from floor to ceiling around all four walls, and
such books as ‘The Explanation of the Apocalypse’ in ten volumes. He played Verdi operas and pantomimed them in
his pajamas with the great rip down the back.
He didn’t give a damn about anything.
He is a great scholar who goes reeling down the NY waterfront with
original 14th century musical manuscripts under his arm,
shouting. He crawls like a great spider
through the streets. His excitement blew
out of his eyes in great stabs of fiendish light. He rolled his neck in spastic ecstasy. He lisped, he writhed, he flopped, he moaned,
he howled, he fell back in despair. He
could hardly get a word out he was so excited with life.” 228
“You always expect some kind of magic at the end of the
road.” 234
“’Now, dammit, look here all of you, we all must admit that
everything is fine and there’s no need in the world to worry, and in fact, we
should realize what it would mean to us to UNDERSTAND that we’re not REALLY
worried about ANYTHING.’” 235
Explanation of Bill Burroughs:
“It would take all night to tell about Bill Burroughs; let’s
just say now, he was a teacher, and had every right to teach because he learned
all the time; and the things he learned were the facts of life, not out of
necessity but because he wanted to. He
dragged his long thin body around the entire US and most of Europe and No.
Africa in his time only to see what was going on; he married a German countess
in Yugoslavia to get her away from the Nazis in the Thirties; there are
pictures of him with big cocaine Berlin gangs with wild hair leaning on one
another; there are other pictures of him in a Panama hat surveying the streets
of Algiers in Morocco. He never saw the
German countess again. He was an
exterminator in Chicago, a bartender in New York, a summons server in
Newark. In Paris he sat at café tables
watching the sullen French faces go by.
In Athens he looked out of his hotel window at what he called the
ugliest people in the world. In
Instanbul he threaded his way through crowds of opium addicts and rug sellers,
looking for the facts. In English hotels
he read Spengler and the Marquis de Sade.
In Chicago he planned to hold up a Turkish bath, hesitated just two
minutes too long for a drink, and wound up with two dollars and had to make a
run for it. He did all these things
merely for the experience. He was a
dawdler of the oldfashioned European school somewhat along the lines of Stefan
Sweig, the young Thomas Mann, and Ivan Karamazov.” 244-245
“And for just a moment I had reached the point of ecstasy
that I always wanted to reach and which was the complete step across
chronological time into timelessness shadows, and wonderment in the bleakness
of the mortal realm, and the sensation of death kicking at my heels to move on,
with a phantom dogging its own heals, and myself hurrying to a plank where all
the Angels dove off and flew into infinity.
This was the state of my mind. I
thought I was going to die the very next moment. But I didn’t…” 274
“My whole wretched life swam before my weary eyes, and I
realized no matter what you do it’s bound to be a waste of time in the end so
you might as well go mad.” 278
“But they need to worry, their souls really won’t be at
peace unless they can latch on to an established and proven worry and having
once found it they assume facial expressions to fit and go with it, which is,
you see, unhappiness, a false really false expression of concern and even
dignity and all the time it all flies by them and they know it and that TOO
worries them NO End.” 306-307
“’They just turn their minds away from you and like changing
fur coats they don’t care any more.
Women can forget what men can’t.
She’s forgotten you, man. You
don’t want to believe it.’ ‘I can’t.’” 345
“Suddenly I had a vision of Neal, a burning shuddering
frightful Angel palpitating towards me across the road, approaching like a
cloud, with enormous speed, pursuing me like the Shrouded Stranger on the
plain, bearing down on me. I saw his
huge face over the plains with the mad bony purpose and the gleaming eyes; I
saw his wings; I saw his old jalopy chariot with thousands of sparking flames
shooting out from it; I saw the path it burned over the road; it even made its
own road and went over the corn, through cities, destroying bridges, drying
rivers. It came like wrath to the
West. I knew Neal had gone mad again.”
360
“Everything amazed him, everything he saw. A picture on the wall made him stiffen to
attention. He went up and looked closer,
he backed up, he stooped, he jumped up, he wanted to see from all possible
levels and angles. He had no idea the
impression he was making and cared less. People were now beginning to look at
Neal with maternal and paternal affection glowing in their faces. He was finally an Angel, like I always knew
he would become.” 364
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