An enjoyable collection of prose poetry from a formative time in Kerouc's life, after The Town and the City but before On the Road was published. Mostly free of the Buddhism that marked his later poetry, but still happy and enlightened.

I read from this book to my son during his baths. He seemed neutral. I really liked reading it to him, but if I had read this quietly to myself, I would not have enjoyed it so much.

Some of his lines were really good, but I don't think these sketches are his best work. Perhaps something in me needs to change to see its beauty.

So good to be in Jack's world again. In this one he is about 30, as good a writer as he will ever be (and that's GOOD) , working as a railroad brakeman around the country, and writing down what he sees and thinks about. No story to get in the way. He claims it's not poetry but it is. A vivid picture of the old America of junkyards and hoboes.

Purely as a reader, I don't know if this book is worth going through to mine the handful of really great sketches. However, as someone who writes poetry, this is arguably the most influential book I've come in contact with. This is a case study on how to write dynamic imagery. If you've been told your writing has too much "subject" but not enough substance, give this a read and Kerouac's sketch method a try. It'll fix you right up.

A favorite stretch of mine:

"August senses September
in the deeper light of
its afternoons--senses
Autumn in the brown
burn of the corn, the
faint singe appearing
on the incomprehensible
horizons--the tanned
tiredness of gardens, the
cooler, brisker breeze--
above all the cool
mysterious nights"

p 23

this book is very raw and for many hard to read. i was very inspired in my own writing with this book. very precious.

Absolutely spellbinding. This is not only what poetry should truly be but how the mind actually works. Kerouac sounds less like an artsy writer and more like a down=to-earth journalist. Not only is the sheer scope of this amazing but the way he switches from concrete descriptions of everyday life to more abstract philosophizing on his own role and the nature of reality is flawless. Spontaneous, rough, yet engaging and beautiful in its own way.

Let's face it, this book wasn't meant to be published. It is exactly what it says, sketches Kerouac made. It takes a little while to get into the book and I think a certain amount of time for Kerouac to find his voice but when everything connects you can really sense his feel and genius for writing, whether through a rhythm, a rhyme or simply some observations. There are plenty of times where Kerouac does what he does, describes everything in front of him in minute detail. Would he have expanded on these had life gone another way? Who knows. As it is they're another piece of the picture and works best read as expirements, notes, observations and yes poems meant only for him.

Kerouac let’s you ride his stream of consciousness waves; the result is rather underwhelming; some original observations and phrasings but you can skip this volume without missing out.

"I, poor French Canadian Ti Jean become
a big sophisticated hipster esthete in
the homosexual arts, I, mutterer to
myself in childhood French, I, Indian0
head, I, Mogloo, I the wild one,
the "child boy," I, Claudius Brutus
McGonigle Mckarroquack, hopper
of freights, Skid Row habituee,
railroad Budhhist, New England Modernist,
20th Century Storywriter, Crum, Krap,
dope, divorcee, hype, type; sitter in win-
dows of life; idiot far from home; no
wood in my stove, no potatoes in my
field, no field; hepcat, howler, wailer,
waiter in the line of time; lazy
washed-out, workless; yearner after
Europe, poet manquée; pas tough!

stool gatherer, food destroyer, war
evader, nightmare dreamer, angel
be-er, wisdom seer, fool, bird, cocacola
bottle—I, am in need of advice
from God and will not get it, not
likely, nor soon, nor ever—sad saha
world, we were born for nothing from
nothing—Respects to our sensitive
Keeners up & down the crime."

from "San Francisco SKETCH (1954 now)"

Lets be honest, these personal notes by Kerouac were meant to be a book. I to keep a small notebook in my pocket where i jot down random musings, but I like Kerouac have no interest in publishing this notebook. The simple yet poignant writings are proof of Kerouac's monstrous memory and his attention to detail, yet in no way formed like a traditional book. As such, it is beautiful poetry, and artfully crafted everyday life. Kerouac has the entertaining ability to make even mowing the lawn seem poetic, and causes the reader to keep their eyes more open to what is around them after reading this book.

I believe it was in David McCullough's brilliant "John Adams" that a father (John Adams?) offers advice to a traveling relative (John Quincy, announcing a trip to Russia?), something like: "Always carry a book of poetry in your pocket and you'll never be alone." That's a great sentiment, and I can imagine traveling with Kerouac's "Book of Sketches" as his observations about everything, literally, are enlightening. A few quotes:
About a place: "Country life with morals, as in North Carolina, is the most destructive life on earth-City life with morals offers a few diversions, nothing more." (And what is not said here is most important: whose morals is he talking about? It feels like a few lines of poetry/prose have been left out.)
About colors: "White creamy huge stucco warehouse of Kew Gardens...iron stairs that lead to a green door in the whiteness of the stucco wall just by the orange and red writing, huge half seen half lit."
About travel with friends: "Neal & I are in Mex City-buying tea* off queers-we're in a hotel room-they are very weird young dirty...we're in MC only a week just for weed & a few Organo girls-Neal's blasting &rolling & bringing my attention to the weirdness of the boys 'Dig them-dig their lives man-The way they live-how they hustle on that crazy Organo street'-wondering how much they oughta charge us..."
About life: "Awright so we're all gonna die but now is the time to sing and see, to be humble, sacrificed, late, crazy, talkative, foolish, mailteinnottond, crawdedommeeng...Time, rather, to be proud, indispensable, early, sane, silent, serious, not mailteinnottond at all."
This prose/poetry work does show influences of James Joyce (Kerouac is one of the few writers I've encountered who can to justicetojoyce). This-a masterpiece of prose/poetry which takes us deep into Kerouac's head, his truths, his person, his sexuality-is one I must buy and keep and revisit often and carry around-maybe in my front pocket so people will think I'm happy to see them.
*tea=in the 1940s to 1960s, the word 'tea' was one of many slang words for marijuana. And, oh how I laughed when that Republican group branched off into their "Tea Party": had it been true to its name, I'd have joined (these ageachesandpains are looking for a cure these days).
CHEERS to Kerouac and the Beats-they got it right in the 50s and 60s. What went wrong after the Summer of Love in 1968? What happened to America? (My opinion, for what it's worth, is that those returning from Vietnam were horribly mistreated. They were never considered heroes in any way, shape, or form. True, the war was pointless, but the veterans deserved so much more and were literally tossed onto the streets. Then, Nixon/Watergate which is being replayed today as Trump/Electiongate.) The spirit of Kerouac, the drive to keep going, to discover, to try all things, and the fascination of talking to anyone on trains and buses and on city streets with no intentions other than to say "hey man, groovy". The grove is gone and that makes me sad. Kerouac died in Florida at age 47 (so young!) in 1969, right after the Summer of Love. It was over for him and the wildly successful America of the 1950s closed. No more groovin' for Kerouac with his beat friends in this plane of existence. A very sad loss for the literary world. But I have to consider this as a 'flawed masterpiece' and give it a 4-star rating: Kerouac states on page 1 that these sketches are "Printed exactly as they were written on the little pages in the notebooks I carried in my breast pocket 1952 Summer to 1954 December..." But right below that, we read, "(Not Necessarily Chronological)." George Condo, in his introduction, tells us this chronological note is by Kerouac and that's fine....so far. But why are they not in chronological order, as that's the way the notebooks would have been written, right? Was Kerouac unable to discern the order or read the dates? Did a publisher re-organize the notes and ask Kerouac to add the note? Were some sketches left out for whatever reason? Yea, I know, I've grown mistrustful of publishers (most recently Micheal Crichton's 'Dragon's Teeth' indicates no where in the book that Crichton wrote it at all, as he has passed on and is unavailable to tell us the truth) so I can't be sure this work here is pure Kerouac, or a product/collaboration between the author and publisher. Also, some of the sketches are written in French (why?) and only one of them is translated into English (again, why?). I have a gut feeling this isn't all Kerouac, but still it's very good. I'm pretty sure Crichton had little or nothing to do with 'Dragon's Teeth', and that one is probably the weakest work with Crichton's name on it. Publisher's with their editors and their finance people and their lawyers, etc., have been involved in the publishing world forever (well, at least during the past 6,000 years during which the written word came into its own) so this issue is nothing new. Still, I highly recommend this to poetry fans, to prose/poetry fans, to anyone who loves James Joyce, to fans of the Beats, and to anyone who wants to get to know Kerouac better.