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72nd book of 2020.
This is my 8th Kerouac now - And though not my favourite (that is still Big Sur - review here), this is still a great read.
Desolation Angels begins again, where we are left at the end of The Dharma Bums - at the top of the mountain as a fire-warden. Then we traverse not only America but Mexico, Tangiers and England. The most interesting part for me was the short section in Tangiers with writer William S. Burroughs. Neal Cassady returns too (Dean Moriarty in On the Road) as Cody. So, we have many returning characters.
I have to record this short discussion between Kerouac and Burroughs, referring to the shocking nature of the images in Burroughs' work. Kerouac is speaking first.
'Why are all these young boys in white shirts being hanged in limestone caves?'
'Dont ask me - I get these messagesfrom other planets - I'm apparently some kind of agent from another planet but I havent got all my orders clearly decoded yet.'
'But why all the vile rheum - like r-h-e-u-m.'
'I'm shitting out my educated Middlewest background for once and for all. It's a matter of catharsis where I say the most horrible thing I can think of- Realise that, the most horrible dirty slimy awful niggardliest posture possible - By the time I finish this book I'll be pure as an angel, my dear. These great existential anarchists and terrorists so-called never even their own drippy fly mentioneth, dear - They should poke sticks thru their shit and analyse that for social progress.'
'But where'll all this shit get us?'
'Simply get us rid of shit, really Jack.' He whips out (it's 4 p.m.) the afternoon's aperitif cognac bottle. We both sigh to see it.
Kerouac also gives us beautiful writing, as expected, and at the end, honest and heartfelt writing about his mother. There is a lot on the internet, and in biographies, about Kerouac and his mother- how he (I'm paraphrasing some quote I remember here): 'never freed himself from her apron strings' - never could 'escape' her. He loved her 'too' much.
But anyway - I'm here for Kerouac's unwavering voice, and beautiful writing:
But how can I ever forget even madder Fall in the Skagit Valley where it would whip the silver ooing moon with slavers of cold mist, smelling of orchards, and tar rooftops with night-ink colours that smelt as rich as frankincense, woodsmoke, leafsmoke, river rain, the smell of the cold on your kneepants, the smell of doors opening, the door of Summer's opened and let in brief glee-y fall with his apple smile, behind him old sparkly winter hobbles
This is my 8th Kerouac now - And though not my favourite (that is still Big Sur - review here), this is still a great read.
Desolation Angels begins again, where we are left at the end of The Dharma Bums - at the top of the mountain as a fire-warden. Then we traverse not only America but Mexico, Tangiers and England. The most interesting part for me was the short section in Tangiers with writer William S. Burroughs. Neal Cassady returns too (Dean Moriarty in On the Road) as Cody. So, we have many returning characters.
I have to record this short discussion between Kerouac and Burroughs, referring to the shocking nature of the images in Burroughs' work. Kerouac is speaking first.
'Why are all these young boys in white shirts being hanged in limestone caves?'
'Dont ask me - I get these messagesfrom other planets - I'm apparently some kind of agent from another planet but I havent got all my orders clearly decoded yet.'
'But why all the vile rheum - like r-h-e-u-m.'
'I'm shitting out my educated Middlewest background for once and for all. It's a matter of catharsis where I say the most horrible thing I can think of- Realise that, the most horrible dirty slimy awful niggardliest posture possible - By the time I finish this book I'll be pure as an angel, my dear. These great existential anarchists and terrorists so-called never even their own drippy fly mentioneth, dear - They should poke sticks thru their shit and analyse that for social progress.'
'But where'll all this shit get us?'
'Simply get us rid of shit, really Jack.' He whips out (it's 4 p.m.) the afternoon's aperitif cognac bottle. We both sigh to see it.
Kerouac also gives us beautiful writing, as expected, and at the end, honest and heartfelt writing about his mother. There is a lot on the internet, and in biographies, about Kerouac and his mother- how he (I'm paraphrasing some quote I remember here): 'never freed himself from her apron strings' - never could 'escape' her. He loved her 'too' much.
But anyway - I'm here for Kerouac's unwavering voice, and beautiful writing:
But how can I ever forget even madder Fall in the Skagit Valley where it would whip the silver ooing moon with slavers of cold mist, smelling of orchards, and tar rooftops with night-ink colours that smelt as rich as frankincense, woodsmoke, leafsmoke, river rain, the smell of the cold on your kneepants, the smell of doors opening, the door of Summer's opened and let in brief glee-y fall with his apple smile, behind him old sparkly winter hobbles
