Yikes, where to begin. As the film was released to such an iconic novel it seemed important to read the novel first (iconic enough to consider seeing a movie with Kristen Stewart in). Not only that, but the novel also appears on the 1001 Books: You Must Read Before You Die list. So, Amazon Marketplace to the rescue and a near-mint copy of the novel arrived in my pigeon-hole at work the next day. If only I'd known what it was going to be like – I joined the library the same week and should have saved myself the money by borrowing it from there – luckily, the book I did borrow from the library, Diaspora City: The London New Writing Anthology (recommended so far), provided a fantastic respite in the shape of some excellent short stories to read between sections of On the Road. In fact, I can't quite believe it took me two weeks to read this. I guess that's an indication of how painful a process it was, and that I kept taking breaks to read other short-stories.

Allegedly, On the Road is the American story of the search for self; the defining novel of the beat generation; or some such crap like that. In five parts, it's the tale of four different road-trips from 1947 through to 1950. In reality it's the irritating tale of Salvatore 'Sal' Paradise and his equally moronically named friends (Dean Moriaty and Carlos Marx anybody?) bumming their way across America – driving, busing, stealing, shagging, taking drugs, partying and generally competing to be the most self-obsessed, pompous, selfish, annoying, fuck-wit in the world (I think ultimately Dean Moriaty just edges it in this competition). Man (everyone's man), I did not 'dig' this book. It really annoyed me, or whatever the opposite of dig is.

بعید هست توی زندگیم آدمی شبیه دین ببینم
اگر هم ببینم قطعا نمیتونم باهاش دوست بشم
در نتیجه
این کتاب تجربه بسیار خوبی بود
مدتی با این جماعت بودم و تا حدودی با فکر و راه و رسمشون آشنا شدم
اما
من خیلی اینجور ادمارو درک نمیکنم
ادمای بی مسئولیت که اخلاقیات رو رعایت نمیکنن و عربده جویی میکنن و نمیدونن چی میخوان از زندگی و احمقانه و افراطی فقط خوشی میکنن

با توجه به شخصیت خود کِرواک توقع چنین توصیفات بسیار زیبا و ادبی رو نداشتم

خیلی وقتا وقتی به فردی میرسیدن فقط درباره اون شخص به این جمله اکتفا میکنه "که داستان زندگیشو گفت"
اما ای کاش برای ماهم میگفت قضایارو
نمیدونم شاید برای خودش این چیزا اهمیت نداشته
اما من دوست داشتم بیشتر بدونم
گاه میگن کناب فلسفی هست و یا کرواک نگاه عمیقی داشته
اما من که توی هیچ جای داستان نگاه عمیقی ندیدم
بالاخره 7 سال سفر کردن
تجربیات خیلی خاصی داشته
اما کرواک بیشتر به توصیف تکراری پمپ بنزین و جاده و آسفالت و کلوپ و ساز زدن میپردازه

نمیدونم کجا ,اما یه جایی این جمله رو درباره کرواک خوندم
که به نظرم خیلی درست و دقیق شخصیتشو توضیح میده:
Kerouac was a really dark soul on the inside and tried his best to stay clean on the outside .


____________________________

تغییر امتیاز از 3.5 به 5 : بعد از ده روز از اتمام کتاب متوجه شدم تمام این روزها به دین فکر میکردم و اینکه چقدر شخصیت اصیل و اورجینالی هست در نتیجه باید سر تعظیم فرود بیارم مقابل قلم کرواک...
این کتاب بیشک شاهکار هست.

A proposito di romanzi che debbono tutto al momento in cui sono letti

09/05/94 Bellissimo!
QUI C'E' LA VITA CHE TRASUDA DA OGNI FRENETICA PAGINA. QUESTO ROMANZO VA LETTO E GODUTO TUTTO, DA CIMA A FONDO, SOPRATTUTTO QUANDO CI SI TROVI ALLA LINEA DIVISORIA TRA L'EST DELLA PROPRIA GIOVINEZZA E L'OVEST DEL PROPRIO FUTURO.

Kerouac mi spinse fino in Messico, fu un viaggio indimenticabile.
(oggi mi viene un dubbio... ma lo stampatello era il mio o l'avevo preso a nolo?)
Kerouac è un autore che letto a vent’anni può non piacere e che a quaranta quasi sicuramente non piacerà.
“Aveva idee musicali semplicissime. Quel che gli piaceva era
sorprendere con una nuova semplice variazione di un chorus. Andava da
un "ta-tap-tadir-rara... ta-tap-tadir-rara", ripetendolo e saltellando a ritmo e
lanciando baci e sorridendo nello strumento, fino a "ta-tap-ii-da-di-dirarap!
ta-tap-ii-da-di-dira-rap!" e sempre provocava gran momenti di risa e
di comprensione per lui e per tutti gli altri che stavano a sentire. ..”
(Come)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8mq4U...

- Dobbiamo andare e non fermarci finché non siamo arrivati.
- Dove andiamo?
- Non lo so, ma dobbiamo andare.

Sono ad ovest, dove il sole tramonta.

سلیمان میگه :

و آنگاه شادمانی را مدح گفتم،زیرا انسان را زیر خورشید چیزی بهتر از خوردن و نوشیدن و شادمانی کردن نباشد:
و این در زحمات او در روزهای زندگی‌اش که خداوند در زیر خورشید به او داده است،همراهش خواهد بود.
باری،برو و نان خود را با شادمانی بخور و شراب خود را با خوشدلی بنوش...در تمام روزهای زندگی باطل خود،با زنی که دوستش داری از زندگی لذت ببر،در تمام روزهای باطل زندگی خود،زیرا این سهم تو در زندگی و در زحماتی است که زیر خورشید می‌کِشی...
هرچه دستت قدرت انجامش را دارد،انجام بده،زیرا در قبری که تو راهی آن هستی،نه کاری هست،نه اندیشه‌ای،نه دانشی،نه حکمتی.


جک کرواک میگه:

«چطور می‌توانی به این چیز ها فکر کنی وقتی مزارع طلایی پیش رویت است؟ و همه جور حوادث نا منتظره در انتظار توست تا تو را به شگفتی بیندازد و خوشحالت کند که زنده ای و چنین چیزی را میبینی؟؟»»

I was in school at the Merchant Marine Academy. I was nineteen years old; a Georgia boy. I had no business being there. The deal at the academy is that you do six months of your Sophomore year and six months of your Junior years at sea. At least that’s how it used to be. I hear they are on trimesters now. Who knows? Anyway, it was this sea year that attracted me to the school in the first place.

So I’m nineteen, heavy boozer, balls to the walls so to speak. I was coming unhinged having to deal with the life of being me all hemmed up in Navy uniform and creating little or no art. I didn’t realize the importance of the art thing until later in life. I was just running a muck really, with no balance whatsoever.

It was time for me to leave for sea. Shiny black FBI shoes walking down military barrack hallway. Hair tucked under garrison cover, hands full, I walked passed Devon Ryan’s room. His room was like a diorama. You would walk by, and what was going on inside went on totally and completely without any regards to the rules outside. It was as if it were a neat and tidy exhibit of some other time and place. He and his roommate Greg Harper were a perfect match.

Greg’s favorite workout included one hour of hard weight lifting followed by a shot of scotch. Run three miles whilst smoking one cigarette per mile, without stopping mind you, and then back to his room for a quick one two alone in his room just before Devon got back from machine shop. All this toped off with scotch of course, and all the while smoking non filtered cigarettes, all the while smiling under curly brown locks, leaning back and making off handed remarks about how Harper is a black name. Greg was the kind of guy I always wanted to learn to be. He seemed bulletproof to the ill effects of society or labels or whatever. Greg always seemed wise beyond his years to me.

Then there was Devon. He was Irish. Long Island Irish, which if you ask me is a different kind of Irish altogether, meaning that there is a culture of Irish people living on Long Island and it is their separation from Ireland that binds them together over here. When I first moved up to New York from Georgia, people would ask, “Where are you from?” and I would respond “Georgia.” “No, I mean what are you?” “I don’t know, a RedNeck maybe.” What they were looking for was Welsh, I am welsh, but then again, my being welsh isn’t nearly as important to me as Devon’s being Irish is important to him. He was Irish, and you could tell just by looking at him. Right down to Cheshire grin on round face, Devon was as Irish as any guy I have ever met.

Devon stopped me as I walked past with bags in my hands. “Hey man,” he nodded me over. Smoke filled the room. Greg and Devon each smoked unfiltered cigarettes and just ashed on the floor. They weren’t dirty, in fact their room was as consistently clean a room as you would ever see. They just smoked, ashed, and swept it up. Greg sat in his khaki uniform pants, imitation leather shoes with white socks, and white tee-shirt, smoking a butt and whittleing two dogs fucking out of a piece of balsa or something. Devon, clad in full sweats, and smoking a butt as well, brought me over to his desk. He opened the top drawer, and as usual there was little more than a single pencil and a couple pieces of paper, but this time there was also a book. Oh what a book. He picked it up and studied it for a second. He absorbed it, as if he had to say goodbye. Put his cigarette in his mouth and handed it right over. “Here, this is a book you gotta read. But you have to promise me something, you have to give it to someone else when your done. This is one book that needs to keep moving and touch as many lives as possible.” He made me promise, and he was serious about it. I took him seriously.

I didn’t read it until I was on my second ship. The S/S “Louise” Lykes. I read it during the ocean crossing; I read it three times in a row. It was as much a revelation for me as it was for anyone else in orbit around the philosophy it represents. It didn’t bring me balance though. Oh no, in fact I would say that it threw me more off balance than I already was at that time in my life. Oh well. I didn’t like Devon asked and gave the book to someone else, never reading a word past the three times I read it crossing the Atlantic.

I wanted to be Dean. Who wouldn’t? Dean Moriarty. No limits, no curfew. Bullet proof and on the run, Dean was that guy who was always aware of what went on late at night after I had already cashed in my chips, and somehow by virtue of that had a handle on everything all the time. He’s always cool, no reason not to be when the bases are loaded and Dean’s at bat. We all know he’s gonna knock it out of the park, and don’t bother hitting on the prettiest girl cause he’s gonna knock that out of the park as well. I didn’t have a good idea of what Neal Cassidy looked like at the time, so to me Dean looked like Greg Harper; rough, but with an inner beauty that outshines his scars and imperfections.

Years later, about eleven years, I was working on this pre-positioning ship parked near Ascension Island. For those who are unaware, a pre-positioning ship is one that sits with military cargo loaded and ready to go to wherever it might be needed. I had been used to working on ships on the move, so getting used to the sedentary lifestyle aboard a “pre-po” took some getting used to. I had a habit of going up and talking to the third mate Brett Smith while he was on watch. I sent my emails up on the bridge at the same time every day, and so after a short time I became friends with him and the AB who was on watch with him. They were both good guys, and as luck would have it we each had similar music tastes.

Eventually we got into books we liked. Of course I had to talk all about Salinger. I probably went on and on about Hemmingway, Kurt Vonnegut, Hunter Thompson, and so on and so forth in that fashion. Bret was right there with me though. See, I don’t just go on like that when I feel like the person I’m talking to has no clue what I am saying. When I meet someone like him who has read many of the same books like that though, it’s like a burst of conversation, because I mainly enjoy and appreciate these books alone. Finally it came up, “On the Road, there’s a book I need to read. I haven’t read that in so many years.” I don’t think we even talked that much about it. Brett just looked at me and knew my dilemma.

Brett went home not long after that. A week later a package showed up at my door. He had sent me two books. One I wanted to read, and one he wanted me to read. The other book was “Confederacy of Dunces” and I liked it. The other book a vintage paperback copy of “On the Road.” It was Yellow. It smelled like old book. On the cover is a guy making out with a girl on top of an old Chevy with a flat tire and a jug of wine. I was afraid of it at first. I had been on a Tom Robbins kick and just kept avoiding it. Finally I read it. Again. It was entirely different this time. This time I saw something different. This time I knew that I was different.

I’ve since been working my way through the Legend of Duluoz.

Читати «В дорозі» зараз ніяково. Я ще можу зрозуміти, чому ця книжка подобалась естетично й вплинула на ціле покоління, але ж етично це повна катастрофа. Повоєнна рутина життя американського середнього класу може і навівала нудьгу, та альтернатива у вигляді двох друзів-пияків, які намагаються втекти від розв'язання проблем, які створюють собі й навколишнім, пересуваючись на великі відстані Сполученими Штатами не викликає особливого співчуття. Це не тільки дослідження меж особистої свободи, як нас попереджає видавнича анотація Комубука, але і дослідження меж особистої безвідповідальності. І це навіть якщо на час забути про небезпідставні закиди в мізогінії, расизмі тощо. Та, заради справедливості, пізніші книжки Керуака трохи кращі.

n   **4.25 stars**

“Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road.”n

Beat Generation has always been one of the most controversial and ambivalent topics for heated arguments that I’ve ever known. I was just beginning in my teens when I first heard about the term, and because my parents won’t let me buy any of these books, I began to watch the movie adaptations (and got one of my favourites, Kill Your Darlings in the process) out of the curiosity.

But even the movies were so poorly received, that I began to ponder if it was worth the effort. Just as with this book, I liked all the movies, didn’t quite love most of them, though, for several reasons.

Now let’s get to the book. Even though I liked it, (or else wouldn’t have reread it) there are quite some elements to it for which I was going to rate it 1 star at first. But then I felt one thing, the book is self-conscious about all of that.

Even on a superficial level, anyone can see that at once that all of the characters are either sexist, homophobic, racist or just all of them. Without saying, all of them are careless, selfish, and tiresomely stupid (for some parts at least).

And to be honest, sexism here is on a whole different level. A guy can be in multiple physical relationships all at once, but if ‘one’ of his girlfriends ditch him for someone else (obviously tired of the constant lies or the fact that she’s just being a sex object), she’s a prostitute. One of our characters also says something like this: n   “Now you see, man, there’s real woman for you. Never a harsh word, never a complaint, or modified: her old man can come in any hour of the night with anybody and have talks in the kitchen and drink the beer and leave any old time. This is a man, and that’s his castle.”n

Not that he doesn’t receive hate for this.

n   “For years now you haven’t had any sense of responsibility for anyone. You’ve done so many awful things I don’t know what to say to you.”

And that was the point, and they all sat around looking at Dean with lowered and hating eyes, and he stood on the carpet in the middle of them and giggled - he just giggled. He made a little dance. His bandage was getting dirtier all the time; it began to flop and unroll. I suddenly realized that Dean, by virtue of his enormous series of sins, was becoming the Idiot, the Imbecile, the Saint of the lot.

“You have absolutely no regard for anybody but yourself and your damned kicks. All you think about is what’s hanging between your legs and how much money or fun you can get out of people and then you just throw them aside. Not only that but you’re silly about it. It never occurs to you that life is serious and there are people trying to make something decent out of it instead of just goofing all the time.”

That’s what Dean was, the HOLY GOOF.

“Camille is crying her heart out tonight, but don’t think for a minute she wants you back, she said she never wanted to see you again and she said it was to be final this time. Yet you stand here and make silly faces, and I don’t think there’s a care in your heart.”n

What you will definitely like about the book is its energetic vibe, which keeps up with its consistent tonality. And on a strong disappointment with Truman Capote here, I feel the storytelling is quite brilliant. Again, everyone will not like it because it doesn’t pause at all: the whole novel is like one crazy long ride filled with booze, party and sex but at the same time contains a philosophical quotient to it which keeps up with the vivid, unapologetic delineation.

Also, you may hate or like the characters (it’s totally up to you) but even those of them who are there for a very short time, feels like real person worth thinking about (Big point to make, says the snide voice. You have already read The Original Scroll and you know it’s almost non-fiction ). Hear me out. We all have that one friend (or more).

They are the polar opposite of everything good. And not in a way of ‘two different ideologies can comfortably coexist in the same room but in a morally wrong way, a way where you can never agree with them on anything. You may even despise or hate most of them, as in what defines them as a persona. But you can’t still let go of them.

Dean Moriarty is one of those characters. Now the ironic factor is that though the majority of the characters are sincerely homophobic, there’s still a homoerotic quotient to the story, especially that is at play between Sal Paradise and Dean. Even if we denounce all the Freudian implications at work from the beginning to the end, the sapiosexual quotient that we can find in Allen Ginsberg is also present here.

What else will you call the almost ridiculous amount of indulgence that Sal provides Dean, coming up with excuses for almost all the misdemeanours and selfish acts that Dean pulls off? How else do you define that irresistible attraction he feels for him (and him only) that compelled him to make all those journeys, only to be ditched, again and again?

I don’t know but I feel that sort of love can only exist without any sort of sexual affinity when two people know each other for a while. Or maybe all that is just a figment of perception: Jack Kerouac only explored the age-old thematic of non-sexual intimacies here. But It’s inexplicable for me at least, again probably because it is meant to be.

But I think somehow that sapiosexual orientation must be discussed more, it’s one of the most unaccounted yet essential elements to constitute the backbone of Dark Academia. All in all, despite all its flaws, I think everyone should give it a go. It definitely isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s unashamedly original, and would’ve been so even if it meant by hook or by crook.

n   “…because he had no place he could stay in without getting tired of it and because there was nowhere to go but everywhere, keep rolling under the stars...”n

A View from the Couch

OTR has received some negative reviews lately, so I thought I would try to explain my rating.

This novel deserves to lounge around in a five star hotel rather than languish in a lone star saloon.

Disclaimer

Please forgive my review. It is early morning and I have just woken up with a sore head, an empty bed and a full bladder.

Confesssion

Let me begin with a confession that dearly wants to become an assertion.

I probably read this book before most of you were born.

So there!

Wouldn't you love to say that!

If only I had the courage of my convictions.

Instead, I have only convictions, and they are many and varied.

However, I am sure that by the end of my (this) sentence, I shall be released.

Elevated to the Bar

I read OTR in my teens, which were spread all over the end of the 60's and the beginning of the 70's.

My life was dominated by Scouting for Boys.

I mean the book, not the activity.

My mantra was "be prepared", although at the time I didn't realise that this actually meant "be prepared for war".

After reading OTR, my new mantra was "be inebriated".

Mind you, I had no idea what alcohol tasted like, but it sounded good.

Gone were two boys in a tent and three men in a boat.

OTR was about trying to get four beats in a bar, no matter how far you'd travelled that day.

Typing or Writing

Forget whether it was just typing rather than writing.

That was just Truman Capote trying to dot one of Dorothy Parker's eyes.

This is like focusing on the mince instead of the sausage.

All Drums and Symbols

You have to appreciate what OTR symbolised for people like me.

It was "On the Road", not "In the House" or "In the Burbs".

It was about dynamism, not passivity.

It wasn't about a stream of consciousness, it was about a river of activity.

It was about "white light, white heat", not "white picket fences".

Savouring the Sausage

OK, your impressions are probably more recent than mine.

Mine are memories that have been influenced by years of indulgence. (I do maintain that alcohol kills the unhealthy brain cells first, so it is actually purifying your brain.)

I simply ask that you overlook the mince and savour the sausage.

Beyond Ephemerality

I would like to make one last parting metaphor.

I have misappropriated it from the musician, Dave Graney.

He talks about "feeling ephemeral, but looking eternal".

Dave comes from the Church of the Latter Day Hipsters.

He is way cooler than me, he even looks great in leather pants, in a spivvy kinda way.

However, I think the point he was making (if not, then the point I am making) is that most of life is ephemeral. It just happens and it's gone forever.

However, in Dave's case, the way he looks, the way he feels, he turns it into something eternal.

It's his art, his music, our pleasure, our memories (at least until we die).

Footnotes on Cool

Creativity and style are our last chance attempt to defy ephemerality and mortality and become eternal.

Yes, all that stuff between the bookends of OTR might be typing, it might be preserving ephemerality that wasn't worthy or deserving.

However, the point is the attempt to be your own personal version of cool.

Heck, no way am I cool like the Beats or James Dean or Marlon Brando or Jack Nicholson or Clint Eastwood or Keith Richards or Camille Paglia.

However, I am trying to live life beyond the ephemeral.

That's what OTR means to me.

If it doesn't mean that to you, hey, that's alright. I'm OK, you're OK. It's cool.

Original posted: March 01, 2011

Dean Moriarty: *abandons his wife and newborn baby, cons people, steals cars, gets turned on by young girls, drives recklessly, does lots of drugs, gets into accidents, puts people’s lives in danger, never expresses remorse, gets multiple women pregnant, cheats on all his three wives, is being an overall total scumbag*
Sal: haha, what a guy, the only people for me are the mad ones

This was just okay for me. I liked the idea of the novel more than actually reading it. The characters came across pretty entitled and selfish. I wanted to see a story of self discovery and growth, instead it was lacking either.

‎دوستانِ گرانقدر، در داستانِ "در جاده" یا "در راه" .. شخصیتِ اصلیِ داستان، <سالواتوره پارادایز> هم راویِ داستان است و هم همزادِ نویسنده یعنی "جک کرواک" به شمار می آید... سال پارادایز، از زنش جدا شده و افسرده و منزوی شده است و به یکباره تصمیم میگیرد دل به جاده زده و راهیِ مقصدی نامشخص شود.... در راه با جوانی به نامِ <دین موریارتی> آشنا میشود... رفتارِ پارادایز، زمین تا آسمان با موریارتی تفاوت دارد.. موریارتی جوانی پُر شر و شور و سرکش است و به هیچ عنوان زیرِ بارِ پند و اندرز نمیرود و اخلاق مداری در وجودش خاموش گشته است.. ولی عجیب است که پارادایز، با آنکه از موریارتی بزرگتر است، ولی از گفتار و کردارِ این جوانِ سرکش، تأثیر میپذیرد
‎این دو، به این نتیجه میرسند که زندگی میتواند در جایِ دیگری باشد.. بنابراین بی هدف، از این شهر به آن شهر رفته و بسیاری از شهرهایِ کوچک و بزرگِ آمریکا را سپری کرده و میگردند... به نوعی، بدونِ هیچگونه هدفی، تسلیمِ حوادث شده و به هرکاری دست میزنند تا اصالتِ وجودِ خویش را بشناسند... سال پارادایز در پیِ اصالتِ خویشتن است و موریارتی جز این خواسته، در پیِ اصالتِ خانوادگی و پدرِ گمشدهٔ خویش... ولی مسیرِ هردو به یکدیگر گره خورده است
‎هردو، بی مسئولیتیِ کودکانه را میپسندند و لذتهایِ زودگذر و جنسی را ستایش میکنند... نوشیدنِ مشروب و کشیدنِ ماری جوانا، دزدیِ خودرو، رانندگی با سرعتِ بالا در جاده ها، همه و همه برایِ آنها زندگیِ پُرهیجان و بی قید و بندی را ساخته است
‎سال پارادایز و دین موریارتی، بابتِ لذت بردن و بی مسئولیتی، هیچگونه احساسِ پشیمانی و عذاب را در وجودشان حس نمیکنند و همین موضوع، داستان را از تکرار و کلیشه، رها ساخته است... نویسنده، بیشتر تلاش کرده تا زندگی به روشِ مصرفی و بی مسئولیتی و البته هیجانِ زندگی را به خواننده نشان دهد
‎عزیزانم، بهتر است خودتان این داستان را خوانده و از سرانجامِ آن آگاه شوید
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‎امیدوارم این ریویو، در جهتِ آشنایی با این کتاب، کافی و مفید بوده باشه
‎<پیروز باشید و ایرانی>

I decided to re-read this recently, having originally read it too long ago as a 15 year old with a head full of clouds, fluffy ideas and idealism. Happy to report that the clouds and other fluff were replaced with an iron clad lump of cynicism which grows daily.

This time round (more than fifteen years on)I enjoyed it more for the colourful style of writing and use of language which marked it as a book that defined a generation. I also realised that despite his skill as a writer, Kerouac and chums were lazy self-centred free-loading moochers rather than the inspirational live for the moment travellers I originally took them for. They pioneered the sofa surfing econo-chic movement which is having a moment right now.

Ultimately running away is fine and fun for a time too. On the Road is about a group of men on the run. From their families, respectability, employment, responsibility and a sedentary conventional life. Clearly they're never going to outrun themselves though, so what is the end game? In this case it is worth it if you're going to get a world class book out of it and be touted as some sort of inter-generational seer for years to come but the chances of that happening are fairly limited.

Eventually the time comes when we have to stand still while the world turns around us for a moment make a decision about who we are and where we're going (and that doesn't mean just going back to Denver!).